Off with hats, down with knees, shout your vivas like mad! Here's the Pope in his holiday righteousness clad, From shorn crown to toe-nail, kiss-worn to the quick, Of sainthood in purple the pattern and pick, Who the role of the priest and the soldier unites, And, praying like Aaron, like Joshua fights! Is this Pio Nono the gracious, for whom We sang our hosannas and lighted all Rome; With whose advent we dreamed the new era began When the priest should be human, the monk be a man? Ah, the wolf's with the sheep, and the fox with the fowl, When freedom we trust to the crosier and cowl! Stand aside, men of Rome! Here's a hangman-faced Swiss-- (A blessing for him surely can't go amiss)-- Would kneel down the sanctified slipper to kiss. Short shrift will suffice him,--he's blest beyond doubt; But there 's blood on his hands which would scarcely wash out, Though Peter himself held the baptismal spout! Make way for the next! Here's another sweet son What's this mastiff-jawed rascal in epaulets done? He did, whispers rumor, (its truth God forbid!) At Perugia what Herod at Bethlehem did. And the mothers? Don't name them! these humors of war They who keep him in service must pardon him for. Hist! here's the arch-knave in a cardinal's hat, With the heart of a wolf, and the stealth of a cat (As if Judas and Herod together were rolled), Who keeps, all as one, the Pope's conscience and gold, Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence, And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence! Who doubts Antonelli? Have miracles ceased When robbers say mass, and Barabbas is priest? When the Church eats and drinks, at its mystical board, The true flesh and blood carved and shed by its sword, When its martyr, unsinged, claps the crown on his head, And roasts, as his proxy, his neighbor instead! There! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed way That they did when they rang for Bartholomew's day. Hark! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor boys, Vex the air with a shrill, sexless horror of noise. Te Deum laudamus! All round without stint The incense-pot swings with a taint of blood in 't! And now for the blessing! Of little account, You know, is the old one they heard on the Mount. Its giver was landless, His raiment was poor, No jewelled tiara His fishermen wore; No incense, no lackeys, no riches, no home, No Swiss guards! We order things better at Rome. So bless us the strong hand, and curse us the weak; Let Austria's vulture have food for her beak; Let the wolf-whelp of Naples play Bomba again, With his death-cap of silence, and halter, and chain; Put reason, and justice, and truth under ban; For the sin unforgiven is freedom for man! 1858. ITALY.