82. Sacrilege
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{143}
THE Church shone brightly in her youthful
days |
| Ere the
world on her smiled; |
| So now, an outcast, she would pour her rays |
| Keen,
free, and undefiled: |
| Yet would I not that arm of force were mine, |
| Which thrusts her from her awful ancient shrine. |
'Twas duty bound each convert-king to rear |
| His
Mother from the dust, |
| And pious was it to enrich, nor fear |
| Christ
for the rest to trust; |
| And who shall dare make common or unclean |
| What once has on the Holy Altar been? |
Dear brothers!—hence, while ye for ill prepare, |
| Triumph
is still your own; |
| Blest is a pilgrim Church!—yet shrink to share |
| The
curse of throwing down. |
| So will we toil in our old place to stand, |
| Watching, not dreading, the despoiler's hand. |
Palermo.
June 4, 1833. |