With a monk's rope, like Luther? or pursue
The goat, like Tell? or dry his nets in haste,
Like Masaniello when the sky was blue?
Keep house like any peasant, with inlaced,
Bare, brawny arms about his favourite child,
And meditative looks beyond the door.—
(But not to mark the kidling's teeth have filed
The green shoots of his vine which last year bore
Full twenty bunches;) or, on triple-piled
Throne-velvets, shall we see him bless the poor.
Like any Pontiff, in the Poorest's name,—
While the tiara holds itself aslope
Upon his steady brows, which, all the same,
Bend mildly to permit the people's hope?
XXI.
Whatever man (last peasant or first Pope
Seeking to free his country!) shall appear,
Teach, lead, strike fire into the masses, fill
These empty bladders with fine air, insphere
These wills into a unity of will.
And make of Italy a nation—dear
And blessed be that man! the Heavens shall kill
No leaf the earth shall grow for him; and Death
Shall cast him back upon the lap of Life,
To live more surely, in a clarion-breath
Of hero-music! Brutus, with the knife,
Rienzi, with the fasces, throb beneath
Rome's stones; and more, who threw away joy's fife
Like Pallas, that the beauty of their souls
Might ever shine untroubled and entire!
But if it can be true that he who rolls
The Church's thunders will reserve her fire
