in the golden dome,
Where the grand mosaic pictures, veiled in warm and misty softness,
Swim in faith's religious trances,--high above all heights of Rome.

Grand as Pergolesi chantings, lovely as a dream of Titian,
Tones and tints and chastened splendors wreathed and grouped in sweet
accord;
While through nave and transept pealing, soar and sink the choral
voices,
Telling of the death and glorious resurrection of the Lord.

But, ah, fatal degradation for this temple of the nations!
For the soul is never lifted by the accord of sights and sound;
But yon priest in gold and satin, murmuring with his ghostly Latin,
Drags it from its natural flights, and trails its plumage on the ground.

And to-day the Pope is heading his whole army of gay puppets,
And the great machinery round us moving with an extra show:
Genuflexions, censers, mitres, mystic motions, candle-lighters,
And the juggling show of relics to the crowd that gapes below,

Till at last they show the Pontiff, a lay figure stuffed and tinselled;
Under canopy and fan-plumes he is borne in splendor proud
To a show-box of the temple overlooking the Piazza;
There he gives his benediction to the long-expectant crowd.

Benediction! while the people, blighted, cursed by superstition,
Steeped in ignorance and darkness, taxed and starved, looks up and begs
For a little light and freedom, for a little law and justice,--
That at least the cup so bitter it may drain not to the dregs!

Benediction! while old error keeps alive a nameless terror!
Benediction! while the poison at each pore is entering deep,
And the sap is slowly withered, and the wormy fruit is gathered,
And a vampire sucks the life out while the soul is fanned asleep!

Oh, the splendor gluts the senses, while the spirit pines and dwindles!
Mother Church is but a dry-nurse, singing while her infant moans;
While anon a cake or rattle gives a little half-oblivion,
And the sweetness and the glitter mingle with her drowsy tones.

But the infant moans and tosses with a nameless want and anguish,
While, with coarse, unmeaning bushings, louder sings the hireling
nurse,--
Knows no better, in her dull and superannuated blindness,--
Tries no potion,--seeks no nurture,--but consents to worse and worse.

If such be thy ultimation, Church of infinite pretension,--
Such within thy chosen garden be the flowers and fruits you bear,--