FROM PERUGIA.

407

The militant angels, whose sabres drive home To the hearts of the malcontents, cursed and abhorred

The good Father's missives, and " Thus saith the Lord!"

And lend to his logic the point of the sword!

O maids of Etruria, gazing forlorn

O'er dark Thrasymenus, disheveiled and torn! O fathers, who pluck at your gray beards for shame!

O mothers, struck dumb by a woe without name! Well ye know how the Holy Church hireling behaves,

And his tender compassion of prisons and graves!

There they stand, the hired stabbers, the bloodstains yet fresh,

That splashed like red wine from the vintage of flesh,

Grim instruments, careless as pincers and rack How the joints tear apart, and the strained sinews

crack;

But the hate that glares on them is sharp as their swords,

And the sneer and the scowl print the air with fierce words!

Off with hats, down with knees, shout your vivas like mad!

Here's the Pope in his holiday righteousness clad, From shorn crown to toe-nail, kiss-worn to the quick,

Of sainthood in purple the pattern and pick,
Who the role of the priest and the soldier unites,
And praying like Aaron, like Joshua fights!

Is this Pio Nono the gracious, for whom
We sang our hosannas and lighted all Rome;

With whose advent we dreamed the new era began When the priest should be human, the monk be a man?

Ah, the wolf's with the sheep, and the fox with the fowl,

When freedom we trust to the crozier and cowl !

Stand aside, men of Rome! Here's a hangmanfaced Swiss

(A blessing for him surely can't go amiss)Would kneel down the sanctified slipper to kiss. Short shrift will suffice him-he's blest beyond doubt;

But there's blood on his hands which would scarcely wash out,

Though Peter himself held the baptismal spout!

Make way for the next! Here's another sweet son!

What's this mastiff-jawed rascal in epaulettes done?
He did, whispers rumor, (its truth God forbid !)
At Perugia what Herod at Bethlehem did.

And the mothers?-Don't name them !-these humors of war

They who keep him in service must pardon him

for.

Hist! here's the arch-knave in a cardinal's hat, With the heart of a wolf, and the stealth of a cat (As if Judas and Herod together were rolled), Who keeps, all as one, the Pope's conscience and gold,

Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence, And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence!

Who doubts Antonelli? Have miracles ceased When robbers say mass, and Barabbas is priest? When the Church eats and drinks, at its mystical board,

FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL.

409

The true flesh and blood carved and shed by its

sword,

When its martyr, unsinged, claps the crown on his head,

And roasts, as his proxy, his neighbor instead!

There! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed

way

That they did when they rang for Bartholomew's

day.

Hark! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor

boys,

Vex the air with a shrill, sexless horror of noise. Te Deum laudamus !— All round without stint The incense-pot swings with a taint of blood in't!

And now for the blessing! Of little account,
You know, is the old one they heard on the Mount.
Its giver was landless, his raiment was poor,
No jewelled tiara his fishermen wore;

No incense, no lackeys, no riches, no home,
No Swiss guards!-We order things better at
Rome.

So bless us the strong hand, and curse us the weak;
Let Austria's vulture have food for her beak;
Let the wolf-whelp of Naples play Bomba again,
With his death-cap of silence, and halter, and chain
Put reason, and justice, and truth under ban;
For the sin unforgiven is freedom for man!

FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL.

THE Persian's flowery gifts, the shrine
Of fruitful Ceres, charm no more;
The woven wreaths of oak and pine
Are dust along the Isthmian shore.

But beauty hath its homage still,
And nature holds us still in debt ;
And woman's grace and household skill,
And manhood's toil, are honored yet.

And we, to-day, amidst our flowers
And fruits, have come to own again
The blessing of the summer hours,
The early and the latter rain;

To see our Father's hand once more
Reverse for us the plenteous horn
Of autumn, filled and running o'er
With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!

Once more the liberal year laughs out
O'er richer stores than gems or gold;
Once more with harvest-song and shout
Is Nature's bloodless triumph told.

Our common mother rests and sings,
Like Ruth, among her garnered sheaves;
Her lap is full of goodly things,

Her brow is bright with autumn leaves.

O favors every year made new!

O gifts with rain and sunshine sent! The bounty overruns our due,

The fulness shames our discontent.

We shut our eyes, the flowers bloom on;
We murmur, but the corn-ears fill;

We choose the shadow, but the sun
That casts it shines behind us still.

God gives us with our rugged soil

The power to make it Eden-fair, And richer fruits to crown our toil

Than summer-wedded islands bear.

FOR AN AUTUMN FESTIVAL.

411

Who murmurs at his lot to-day?

Who scorns his native fruit and bloom? Or sighs for dainties far away,

Beside the bounteous board of home?

Thank Heaven, instead, that Freedom's arm
Can change a rocky soil to gold,-
That brave and generous lives can warm
A clime with northern ices cold.

And let these altars wreathed with flowers
And piled with fruits awake again
Thanksgiving for the golden hours,
The early and the latter rain!