To Charles Mulvany

Those angry fires, that clove the air, Heavy with Rome's imperial lust: Those bitter fires, that burn and flare Unquenched, above their kindler's dust: Aquinum can their birth declare.

The wicked splendours of old time, Juvenal! stung thy passionate heart. Wrath learned of thee a scorn sublime; The Muses, a prophetic art: Yet pride and lust kept still their prime.

A greater birth, Aquinum knows: Rank upon rank, in stately wise; Rank upon rank, in ordered rows; Like sacred hosts and hierarchies, The march of holy science goes.

Vain, a man's voice, to conquer men! Rome fell: Rome rose: Aquinum lent The world her greater citizen: Armed for Rome's war, Saint Thomas went, Using God's voice: they listened, then.

Ah, Juvenal! thy trumpet sound: Woe for the fallen soul of Rome! But the high saint, whose music found The altar its eternal home, Sang: Lauda Sion! heavenward bound.

A fourfold music of the Host, He sang: the open Heavens shone plain. Then back he turned him to his post, And opened heavenly Laws again, From first to last, both least and most.

O little Latin town! rejoice, Who hast such motherhood, as this: Through all the worlds of faith one voice Chaunts forth the truth; yet stays not his, Whose anger made a righteous choice.