XXVI

Of wider subject through past years,—behold,

We come back from the Popedom to the Pope,

      To ponder what he must be, ere we are bold

For what he may be, with our heavy hope

      To trust upon his soul. So, fold by fold,

Explore this mummy in the priestly cope

      Transmitted through the darks of time, to catch

The man within the wrappage, and discern

      How he, an honest man, upon the watch

Full fifty years, for what a man may learn,

      Contrived to get just there; with what a snatch

Of old world oboli he had to earn

      The passage through; with what a drowsy sop

To drench the busy barkings of his brain;

      What ghosts of pale tradition, wreathed with hop

'Gainst wakeful thought, he had to entertain

      For heavenly visions; and consent to stop

The clock at noon, and let the hour remain

      (Without vain windings up) inviolate,

Against all chimings from the belfry. Lo!

      From every given pope, you must abate,

Albeit you love him, some things-good, you know

      Which every given heretic you hate

Claims for his own, as being plainly so.

      A pope must hold by popes a little,—yes,

By councils,—from Nicæa up to Trent,—

      By hierocratic empire, more or less

Irresponsible to men,-he must resent

      Each man's particular conscience, and repress

Inquiry, meditation, argument,

      As tyrants faction. Also, he must not

Love truth too dangerously, but prefer

      "The interests of the Church," because a blot

Is better than a rent in miniver,—

      Submit to see the people swallow hot

Husk-porridge which his chartered churchmen stir

Quoting the only true God's epigraph,

"Feed my lambs, Peter!"—must consent to sit

      Attesting with his pastoral ring and staff,

To such a picture of our Lady, hit

      Off well by artist angels, though not half

As fair as Giotto would have painted it;

      To such a vial, where a dead man's blood

Runs yearly warm beneath a churchman's finger;

      To such a holy house of stone and wood,

Whereof a cloud of angels was the bringer

      From Bethlehem to Loreto!—Were it good

For any pope on earth to be a flinger

      Of stones against these high-niched counterfeits?

Apostates only are iconoclasts.

      He dares not say, while this false thing abets

That true thing, "this is false!" he keepeth fasts

      And prayers, as prayers and fasts were silver frets

To change a note upon a string that lasts,

      And make a lie a virtue. Now, if he

Did more than this,—higher hoped and braver dared,—

      I think he were a pope in jeopardy,

Or no pope rather! for his soul had barred

      The vaulting of his life. And certainly,

If he do only this, mankind's regard

      Moves on from him at once, to seek some new

Teacher and leader! He is good and great

      According to the deeds a pope can do;

Most liberal, save those bonds; affectionate,

      As princes may be; and, as priests are, true—

But only the ninth Pius after eight,

      When all's praised most. At best and hopefullest,

He's pope—we want a man! his heart beats warm,

      But, like the prince enchanted to the waist,

He sits in stone, and hardens by a charm

      Into the marble of his throne high-placed!

Mild benediction, waves his saintly arm—

      So good! but what we want's a perfect man,

Complete and all alive: half travertine

      Half suits our need, and ill subserves our plan.

Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies divine

      Were never yet too much for men who ran

In such exalted ways as this of thine,

      Deliverer whom we seek, whoe'er thou art,

Pope, prince, or peasant! If, indeed, the first,

      The noblest, therefore! since the heroic heart

Within thee must be great enough to burst

      Those trammels buckling to the baser part

Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed and cursed

      With the same finger.