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( clouds that paint the air!
O fountains, fields, and groves !
Lights, sounds, and odours rare,
Which my yearning spirit loves !
While thus I feel, and only steal
From visions so enchanting,
In tuneful lays to sing your praise,
What charm of life is wanting?
THE QUARREL OF FAITH, HOPE, AND
ONCE Faith, Hope, and Charity traversed the land,
In sisterhood's uninterrupted embraces,
Performing their office of love hand in hand,
Of the Christian world the appropriate Graces.
But tiffs since those primitive days have occurr'd,
That threaten to sever this friendly relation, As may
well be surmised when I state, word for word,
The terms of their latest and worst altercation:
“Sister Charity, prythee allow me to state,”
Cries Faith, in a tone of contemptuous sneering,
“That while you affect to be meek and sedate,
* Your conduct is cunning, your tone domineering.
“In the times that are gone, my world-harassing name,
“Received some accession of strength ev'ry hour;
"St. Bartholomew's Massacre hallow'd my fame,
"And Sicily's Vespers asserted my power.
“When martyrs in multitudes rush'd at my call,
“To peril their lives for Theology's sake,
“Mine too was the voice that cried, “Sacrifice all,
“ • With gaol and with gibbet, with faggot and stake.'
“When the banner of orthodox slaughter was furl’d,
“And subjects no more from each other dissented,
“I set them at war with the rest of the world,
“And for centuries national struggles fomented.
“ What are all the great heroes on history's page,
“But puppets who figured as I pulled the strings ?
“ Crusades I engender'd in every age,
“ And Faith was the leader of armies and kings.
“In those days of my glory Hope followed my track,
“In warfare a firm and impartial ally,
“ For she constantly patted both sides on the back,
“ And promised them both a reward in the sky.”
Here Charity, heaving disconsolate sighs,
That said “I admit what I deeply deplore,”
Uplifted to heaven her tear-suffused eyes,
Which seem'd but to anger her sister the more.
Nay, none of your cant, hypocritical minx !”
She cried in a louder and bitterer tone,
“ If you feel any fancy to whimper, methinks
“ You might weep that the days of my glory are gone.
“ What wreck of my palmy puissance is left?
“ What bravos and bullies my greatness declare? Of the holy and dear Inquisition bereft, “ All my fierce fulminations are impotent air.
“ No racks and no pincers-no limbs piecemeal torn,
“ No screams of the tortured my prowess display;
“ And to crown all these slights, I am shamefully shorn
Of my own proper triumph, an auto da fè,
The Pope, who could once, in my terrible name,
Spread warfare and havoc all-Christendom round,
“ Is sunk to such pitiful dotage and shame,
“ That the Vatican thunder 's a ridiculed sound.
“ Nay, even in England, my latest strong-hold,
- And the firmest support of my paramount sway,
(In Gath or in Askelon be it not told,)
“ All my orthodox bulwarks are crumbling away.
· Dissenters, untested, may now, nothing loth,
“ As municipal officers feast and carouse; " And emancipate Catholics, taking the oath,
“O horror of horrors! may sit in the House.