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TO PIUS IX.

When the thought of man is free,
Error fears its lightest tones;
So the priest cried, "Sadducee!"
And the people took up stones.

In the ancient burying-ground,
Side by side the twain now lie-
One with humble grassy mound,
One with marbles pale and high.

But the Lord hath blest the seed
Which that tradesman scattered then,
And the preacher's spectral creed
Chills no more the blood of men.

Let us trust, to one is known

Perfect love which casts out fear,
While the other's joys atone
For the wrong he suffered here.

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TO PIUS IX.10

THE cannon's brazen lips are cold;
No red shell blazes down the air:
And street and tower, and temple old,
Are silent as despair.

The Lombard stands no more at bay--
Rome's fresh young life has bled in vain ;
The ravens scattered by the day

Come back with night again.

Now, while the fratricides of France
Are treading on the neck of Rome,
Hider at Gaeta-seize thy chance !
Coward and cruel, come !

Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt;
Thy mummer's part was acted well,
While Rome, with steel and fire begırt,
Before thy crusade fell!

Her death-groans answered to thy prayer;
Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call;
Thy lights, the burning villa's glare;
Thy beads, the shell and ball!

Let Austria clear thy way, with hands
Foul from Ancona's cruel sack,
And Naples, with his dastard bands
Of murderers, lead thee back!

Rome's lips are dumb; the orphan's wail,
The mother's shriek, thou may'st not hear
Above the faithless Frenchman's hail,
The unsexed shaveling's cheer!

Go, bind on Rome her cast-off weight,
The double curse of crook and crown,
Though woman's scorn and manhood's hatı
From wall and roof flash down!

Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall,
Not Tiber's flood can wash away,
Where, in thy stately Quirinal,
Thy mangled victims lay!

Let the world murmur; let its cry
Of horror and disgust be heard ;—
Truth stands alone; thy coward lie
Is backed by lance and sword!

The cannon of St. Angelo,

And chanting priest and clanging bell,
And beat of drum and bugle blow,
Shall greet thy coming well!

TO PIUS IX.

Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves
Fit welcome give thee;-for her part,
Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves,
Shall curse thee from her heart! ·

No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers
Shall childhood in thy pathway fling;
No garlands from their ravaged bowers
Shall Terni's maidens bring;

But, hateful as that tyrant old,

The mocking witness of his crime, In thee shall loathing eyes behold The Nero of our time!

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Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed, Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call Its curses on the patriot dead,

Its blessings on the Gaul!

Or sit upon thy throne of lies,

A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared, Whom even its worshippers despise— Unhonored, unrevered!

Yet, Scandal of the World! from thee
One needful truth mankind shall learn—
That kings and priests to Liberty

And God are false in turn.

Earth wearies of them; and the long

Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail; Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong Wake, struggle, and prevail !

Not vainly Roman hearts have bled
To feed the Crozier and the Crown,
If, roused thereby, the world shall tread
The twin-born vampires down!

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ELLIOTT.11

HANDS off! thou tythe-fat plunderer! play
No trick of priestcraft here !
Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay
A hand on Elliott's bier ?

Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust,
Beneath his feet he trod:

He knew the locust swarm that cursed
The harvest-fields of God.

On these pale lips, the smothered thought
Which England's millions feel,
A fierce and fearful splendor caught,
As from his forge the steel.
Strong-armed as Thor-a shower of fire
His smitten anvil flung;

God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire-
He gave them all a tongue!

Then let the poor man's horny hands
Bear up the mighty dead,

And labor's swart and stalwart bands
Behind as mourners tread.

Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds,

Leave rank its minster floor;

Give England's green and daisied grounds
The poet of the poor!

Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge
That brave old heart of oak,
With fitting dirge from sounding forge,
And pall of furnace smoke!

Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds,

And axe and sledge are swung,

And, timing to their stormy sounds,
His stormy lays are sung

ICHABOD!

There let the peasant's step be heard,
The grinder chant his rhyme;
Nor patron's praise nor dainty word
Befits the man or time.

No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh
For him whose words were bread-
The Runic rhyme and spell whereby
The foodless poor were fed!

Pile up thy tombs of rank and pride,
(England, as thou wilt!

With pomp to nameless worth denied,
Emblazon titled guilt!

No part or lot in these we claim;
But, o'er the sounding wave,
A common right to Elliott's name,
A freehold in his grave!

ICHABOD!

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone
Forevermore!

Revile him not-the Tempter hath
A snare for all;

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall!

Oh! dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,

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