Who sits upon the Pontiff's throne? On Peter's holy chair Who sways the keys? At such a time When dullest ears may hear the chime Of coming thunders--when dark skies Are writ with crimson prophecies, A wise man should be there; A godly man, whose life might be The living logic of the sea; One quick to know, and keen to feel-- A fervid man, and full of zeal, Should sit in Peter's chair. Alas! no fervid man is there, No earnest, honest heart; One who, though dress'd in priestly guise, Looks on the world with worldling's eyes; One who can trim the courtier's smile, Or weave the diplomatic wile, But knows no deeper art; One who can dally with fair forms, Whom a well-pointed period warms-- No man is he to hold the helm Where rude winds blow, and wild waves whelm, And creaking timbers start. In vain did Julius pile sublime The vast and various dome, That makes the kingly pyramid's pride, And the huge Flavian wonder, hide Their heads in shame--these gilded stones (O heaven!) were very blood and bones Of those whom Christ did come To save--vile grin of slaves who sold Celestial rights for earthy gold, Marketing grace with merchant's measure, To prank with Europe's pillaged treasure The pride of purple Rome. The measure of her sins is full, The scarlet-vested whore! Thy murderous and lecherous race Have sat too long i' the holy place; The knife shall lop what no drug cures, Nor Heaven permits, nor earth endures, The monstrous mockery more. Behold! I swear it, saith the Lord: Mine elect warrior girds the sword-- A nameless man, a miner's son, Shall tame thy pride, thou haughty one, And pale the painted whore! Earth's mighty men are nought. I chose Poor fishermen before To preach my gospel to the poor; A pauper boy from door to door That piped his hymn. By his strong word The startled world shall now be stirr'd, As with a lion's roar! A lonely monk that loved to dwell With peaceful host in silent cell; This man shall shake the Pontiff's throne: Him Kings and emperors shall own, And stout hearts wince before The eye profound and front sublime Where speculation reigns. He to the learned seats shall climb, On Science' watch-tower stand sublime; The arid doctrine shall inspire Of wiry teachers with swift fire; And, piled with cumbrous pains, Proud palaces of sounding lies Lay prostrate with a breath. The wise Shall listen to his word; the youth Shall eager seize the new-born truth Where prudent age refrains.