XXII

In that case—I will kiss them reverently

      As any pilgrim to the Papal seat!

And, such proved possible, thy throne to me

      Shall seem as holy a place as Pellico's

Venetian dungeon; or as Spielberg's grate,

      Where the fair Lombard woman hung the rose

Of her sweet soul, by its own dewy weight,

      (Because her sun shone inside to the close!)

And pining so, died early, yet too late

      For what she suffered! Yea, I will not choose

Betwixt thy throne, Pope Pius, and the spot

      Marked red for ever spite of rains and dews,

Where two fell riddled by the Austrian's shot

      The brothers Bandiera, who accuse,

With one same mother-voice and face, (that what

      They speak may be invincible,) the sins

Of earth's tormentors before God, the just,

      Until the unconscious thunder-bolt begins

To loosen in His grasp.