To Pius IX

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 begirt,     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 mayst 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 hate     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!     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!     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, Crosier and the Crown,     If, roused thereby, the world shall tread     The twin-born vampires down!