Canto 25 ("Ah Rome, your tie! may child…)

"Ah Rome, your tie! may child clean part? Nay, tugs the mother at the heart!"

Strange voice that was which three there heard Reclined upon the bank. They turned; And he, the speaker of the word,

Stood in the grass, with eyes that burned How eloquent upon the group. "Here urging on before our troop," He said, "I caught your choral strains— Spurred quicker, lighted, tied my mule Behind yon clump; and, for my pains, Meet—three, I ween, who slight the rule Of Rome, yet thence do here indeed, Through strong compulsion of the need, Derive fair rite: or may I err?" Surprise they knew, yet made a stir Of welcome, gazing on the man In white robe of Dominican,

Of aspect strong, though cheek was spare, Yellowed with tinge athlete may wear Whom rigorous masters overtrain When they with scourge of more and more Would macerate him into power. Inwrought herewith was yet the air And open frontage frankly fair Of one who'd moved in active scene And swayed men where they most convene. His party came from Saba last, Camping by Lot's wave overnight— French pilgrims. So he did recite Being questioned. Thereupon they passed To matters of more pith. Debate They held, built on that hymning late; Till in reply to Derwent's strain Thus warmed he, that Dominican: "Crafty is Rome, you deem? Her art Is simple, quarried from the heart. Rough marbles, rudiments of worth Ye win from ledges under earth; Ye trim them, fit them, make them shine In structures of a fair design. Well, fervors as obscure in birth— Precious, though fleeting in their dates— Rome culls, adapts, perpetuates In ordered rites. 'Tis these supply Means to the mass to beautify The rude emotion; lend meet voice To organs which would fain rejoice But lack the song; and oft present To sorrow bound, an instrument Which liberates. Each hope, each fear Between the christening and the bier Still Rome provides for, and with grace And tact which hardly find a place In uninspired designs." "Let be Thou Paul! shall Festus yield to thee?"

Cried Rolfe; "and yet," in altered tone, "Even these fair things—ah, change goes on!" "Change? yes, but not with us. In rout Sword-hilts rap at the Vatican, And, lo, an old, old man comes out: 'What would ye?' 'Change!' 'I never change.' " "Things changing not when all things change Need perish then, one might retort, Nor err." "Ay, things of human sort." "Rome superhuman?" "As ye will. Brave schemes these boyish times instill; But Rome has lived a thousand years: Shall not a thousand years know more Than nonage may?" "Then all the cheers Which hail the good time deemed at door Are but the brayings which attest The foolish, many-headed beast!" "Hardly that inference I own. The people once elected me To be their spokesman. In this gown I sat in legislative hall A champion of true liberty— God's liberty for one and all— Not Satan's license. Mine's the state

Of a staunch Catholic Democrat." Indulgent here was Derwent's smile, Incredulous was Rolfe's. But he: "Hardly those terms ye reconcile. And yet what is it that we see? Before the Church our human race Stand equal. None attain to place Therein through claim of birth or fee. No monk so mean but he may dare Aspire to sit in Peter's chair." "Why, true," said Derwent; "but what then? That sums not all. And what think men?" And, briefly, more, about the rot

Of Rome in Luther's time, the canker spot. "Well," said the monk, "I'll not gainsay Some things you put: I own the shame: Reform was needed, yes, and came— Reform within. But let that go— That era's gone: how fares it now?— Melancthon! was forecast by thee, Who fain had tempered Luther's mind, This riot of reason quite set free: Sects—sects bisected—sects disbanded Into plain deists underhanded? Against all this stands Rome's array: Rome is the Protestant to-day: The Red Republic slinging flame In Europe—she's your Scarlet Dame. Rome stands; but who may tell the end? Relapse barbaric may impend, Dismission into ages blind— Moral dispersion of mankind. Ah, God," and dropped upon the knee: "These flocks which range so far from Thee, Ah, leave them not to be undone: Let them not cower as 'twixt the sea And storm—in panic crowd and drown!" He rose, resumed his previous cheer With something of a bearing sweet. "Brother," said Derwent friendly here "I'm glad to know ye, glad to meet, Even though, in part, your Rome seeks ends Not mine. But, see, there pass your friends: Call they your name?" "Yes, yes" he said, And rose to loose his mule; "you're right; We go to win the further bed OfJordan, by the convent's site. A parting word: Methinks ye hold Reserved objections. I'll unfold But one:—Rome being fixed in form, Unyielding there, how may she keep

Adjustment with new times? But deep Below rigidities of form The invisible nerves and tissues change Adaptively. As men that range From clime to clime, from zone to zone (Say Russian hosts that menace Ind) Through all vicissitudes still find The body acclimate itself While form and function hold their own— Again they call:—Well, you are wise; Enough—you can analogize And take my meaning: I have done. No, one more point:—Science but deals With Nature; Nature is not God; Never she answers our appeals, Or, if she do, but mocks the clod. Call to the echo—it returns The word you send; how thrive the ferns About the ruined house of prayer In woods; one shadow falleth yet From Christian spire—Turk minaret: Consider the indifference there. 'Tis so throughout. Shall Science then Which solely dealeth with this thing Named Nature, shall she ever bring One solitary hope to men?

'Tis Abba Father that we seek, Not the Artificer. I speak, But scarce may utter. Let it be. Adieu; remember—Oh, not me; But if with years should fail delight As things unmask abroad and home; Then, should ye yearn in reason's spite, Remember hospitable Rome."

He turned, and would have gone; but, no, New matter struck him: "Ere I go Yet one word more; and bear with me: Whatever your belief may be—

If well ye wish to human kind, Be not so mad, unblest, and blind As, in such days as these, to try To pull down Rome. If Rome could fall 'Twould not be Rome alone, but all Religion. All with Rome have tie, Even the railers which deny, All but the downright Anarchist, Christ-hater, Red, and Vitriolist. Could libertine dreams true hope disable, Rome's tomb would prove Abaddon's cradle. Weigh well the Pope. Though he should be Despoiled of Charlemagne's great fee— Cast forth, and made a begging friar, That would not quell him. No, the higher Rome's In excelsis would extol Her God—her De profundis roll The deeper. Let destructives mind The reserves upon reserves behind. Offence I mean not. More's to tell: But frigates meet—hail—part. Farewell." And, going, he a verse did weave, Or hummed in low recitative:

"Yearly for a thousand years On Christmas Day the wreath appears, And the people joy together: Prithee, Prince or Parliament, An equal holiday invent Outlasting centuries of weather.

"Arrested by a trembling shell, Wee tinkle of the small mass-bell, A giant drops upon the knee. Thou art wise—effect as much; Let thy wisdom by a touch Reverence like this decree."