and gory piles,

A ghastly barricade of mangled flesh, From which, at times, quivered a living hand,

And white lips moved and moaned. A father tore

His gray hairs, by the body of his son, In frenzy; and his fair young daughter wept

On his old bosom. Suddenly a flash Clove the thick sulphurous air, and man and maid

Sank, crushed and mangled by the shattering shell.

Then spake the Galilean: "Thou hast seen

The blessed Master and his works of love;

Look now on thine! Hear'st thou the

231

I, Peter, fisherman of Galilee, In the dear Master's name, and for the love

Of his true Church, proclaim thee Antichrist,

Alien and separate from his holy faith, Wide as the difference between death and life,

The hate of man and the great love of God!

Hence, and repent!"

Thereat the pontiff woke, Trembling, and muttering o'er his fearful dream.

"What means he?" cried the Bourbon. "Nothing more

Than that your majesty hath all too well

Catered for your poor guests, and that, in sooth,

The Holy Father's supper troubleth him,"

Said Cardinal Antonelli, with a smile.

Old prayer with which, for half a score of years,

Morning, and noon, and evening, lip and heart

Had groaned: "Have pity upon me, Lord!

Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind.

Send me a man who can direct my steps!

A PIOUS magistrate! sound his praise throughout

The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth doubt

That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh?

Sin in high places has become devout, Tithes mint, goes painful-faced, and prays its lie

Straight up to Heaven, and calls it piety!

The pirate, watching from his bloody deck

The weltering galleon, heavy with the gold

Of Acapulco, holding death in check While prayers are said, brows crossed, and beads are told,

The robber, kneeling where the wayside cross

On dark Abruzzo tells of life's dread

loss

233

From his own carbine, glancing still abroad

For some new victim, offering thanks to God!

Rome, listening at her altars to the cry Of midnight Murder, while her hounds of hell

Scour France, from baptized cannon and holy bell

And thousand-throated priesthood, loud and high,

Pealing Te Deums to the shuddering sky,

"Thanks to the Lord, who giveth victory!"

What prove these, but that crime was ne'er so black

As ghostly cheer and pious thanks to lack?

Satan is modest. At Heaven's door he lays

His evil offspring, and, in Scriptural phrase

And saintly posture, gives to God the praise

And honor of the monstrous progeny. What marvel, then, in our own time

"Live out thyself; with others share Thy proper life no more; assume The unconcern of sun and air,

For life or death, or blight or bloom.

The mountain pine looks calmly on The fires that scourge the plains below,

Nor heeds the eagle in the sun

The small birds piping in the snow!

"The world is God's, not thine; let him

Work out a change, if change must be: The hand that planted best can trim

And nurse the old unfruitful tree."

So spake the Tempter, when the light
Of sun and stars had left the sky,
I listened, through the cloud and night,
And heard, methought, a voice re-
ply:

"Thy task may well seem over-hard,
Who scatterest in a thankless soil
Thy life as seed, with no reward

Save that which Duty gives to Toil.

"Not wholly is thy heart resigned

To Heaven's benign and just decree, Which, linking thee with all thy kind, Transmits their joys and griefs to thee.

Break off that sacred chain, and

turn

Back on thyself thy love and care; Be thou thine own mean idol, burn

Faith, Hope, and Trust, thy children, there.

"Released from that fraternal law

Which shares the common bale and bliss,

No sadder lot could Folly draw,

Or Sin provoke from Fate, than this.

"The meal unshared is food unblest; Thou hoard'st in vain what love should spend ; Self-ease is pain; thy only rest Is labor for a worthy end.

"A toil that gains with what it yields, And scatters to its own increase,