No longer the massive walls crumbled and fell, Its decay and its ruin for ages to tell; The huge pile was now used for a far higher aim Than the praise of a pagan emperor’s name. Rebuilt and remodelled, it rung with the cry, “Our Lord, GOD omnipotent reigneth on high!” To the city then hastening, I marked with surprise, No Romish processions attracted all eyes, No beggars, the pest of the traveller, were seen, No long lines of priests with crosses between, No nuns in black robes paraded the street, No close-shaven monks with bare head and feet. The poverty, dirt and all the vile trade That beggary everywhere brings to its aid. Existed no more in that land once debased, (Their name and remembrance forever effaced.) Each dark piercing eye with a purer light shone, Passion, anger and feuds were entirely unknown. And the love, the apostle once preached, by God’s grace, Inspired every heart and lit up each face. Soon we neared the vast--the magnificent shrine, Where once to base man was paid homage divine; The noble proud dome named St. Peter’s of old, In the warm sunset gleaming resplendent as gold. No cross now surmounted the dizzying height, A star hung above it, as pure and as bright As the one that once stood o’er the manger and bed Where the Saviour of sinners first rested his head. I entered the courts, for hundreds of years Trod by the pilgrims deluded, in sorrow and tears, Where thousands knelt bowing to image or cross, More than true worship loving the world and its dross. No crucifix now was lifted on high, No priest called for penance from crowds passing by, No form carved in ivory, wood, brass or stone, Mocked the traits that belong to the Godhead alone. No sensuous pictures of Virgin and child Pleased the mass, to false adoration beguiled. A light, clear and holy, words cannot express, Pervaded the spot and illumined each recess, As the hosts of the faithful from every land, Admired the change wrought by Almighty command, In that temple where infancy, manhood and youth Worshipped God, their Creator, in spirit and truth. “Does the Pope,” I enquired, “in the Vatican live, And the people yet think he their sins can forgive?” “Oh! no!” said a gray-haired old man at my side. “Many years have elapsed since the last Pontiff died. On a far distant shore, exiled, pining he lay, His soul filled with remorse at the thought of that day, When he claimed, in his pride, God’s vicegerent to be, Receiving vile homage of lip and of knee. Of all the long line of the popes, there was none Save he, who confessed to his Saviour alone; Yet, through mercy divine, his own sins forgiven, His purified soul passed from earth into heaven. This house, once the scene of debauch and of crime,