XXI

Whatever man (last peasant or first Pope

      Seeking to free his country!) shall appear,

Teach, lead, strike fire into the masses, fill

      These empty bladders with fine air, insphere

These wills into a unity of will.

      And make of Italy a nation—dear

And blessed be that man! the Heavens shall kill

      No leaf the earth shall grow for him; and Death

Shall cast him back upon the lap of Life,

      To live more surely, in a clarion-breath

Of hero-music! Brutus, with the knife,

      Rienzi, with the fasces, throb beneath

Rome's stones; and more, who threw away joy's fife

      Like Pallas, that the beauty of their souls

Might ever shine untroubled and entire!

      But if it can be true that he who rolls

The Church's thunders will reserve her fire

For only light; from eucharistic bowls

Will pour new life for nations that expire,

      And rend the scarlet of his Papal vest

To gird the weak loins of his countrymen—

      I hold that man surpasses all the rest

Of Romans, heroes, patriots,—and that when

      He sat down on the throne, he dispossessed

The first graves of some glory. See again,

      This country-saving is a glorious thing!

Why, say a common man achieved it? Well!

      Say, a rich man did? Excellent! A king?

That grows sublime! A priest? Improbable!

      A Pope? Ah, there we stop and cannot bring

Our faith up to the leap, with history's bell

      So heavy round the neck of it—albeit

We fain would grant the possibility

      For thy sake, Pio Nono!