_Arnaldo._ I never care to ask Where popes are born; and from long suffering, You, Romans, before heaven, should have learnt That priests can have no country.... I know this man; his father was a thrall, And he is fit to be a slave. He made Friends with the Norman that enslaves his country; A wandering beggar to Avignon's cloisters He came in boyhood and was known to do All abject services; there those false monks He with astute humility cajoled; He learned their arts, and 'mid intrigues and hates He rose at last out of his native filth A tyrant of the vile. The cardinals, confounded by Arnaldo's presence and invectives, withdraw, but leave one of their party to work on the fears of the Romans, and make them return to their allegiance by pictures of the desolating war which Barbarossa, now approaching Rome to support Adrian, has waged upon the rebellious Lombards at Rosate and elsewhere. Arnaldo replies:-- Romans, I will tell all the things that he has hid; I know not how to cheat you. Yes, Rosate A ruin is, from which the smoke ascends. The bishop, lord of Monferrato, guided The German arms against Chieri and Asti, Now turned to dust; that shepherd pitiless Did thus avenge his own offenses on His flying flocks; himself with torches armed The German hand; houses and churches saw Destroyed, and gave his blessing on the flames. This is the pardon that you may expect From mitered tyrants. A heap of ashes now Crowneth the hill where once Tortona stood; And drunken with her wine and with her blood, Fallen there amidst their spoil upon the dead, Slept the wild beasts of Germany: like ghosts Dim wandering through the darkness of the night, Those that were left by famine and the sword, Hidden within the heart of thy dim caverns, Desolate city! rose and turned their steps Noiselessly toward compassionate Milan. There they have borne their swords and hopes: I see A thousand heroes born from the example Tortona gave. O city, if I could, O sacred city! upon the ruins fall Reverently, and take them in my loving arms, The relics of thy brave I'd gather up In precious urns, and from the altars here In days of battle offer to be kissed! Oh, praise be to the Lord! Men die no more For chains and errors; martyrs now at last Hast thou, O holy Freedom; and fain were I Ashes for thee!--But I see you grow pale, Ye Romans! Down, go down; this holy height Is not for cowards. In the valley there Your tyrant waits you; go and fall before him And cover his haughty foot with tears and kisses. He'll tread you in the dust, and then absolve you. _The People._ The arms we have are strange and few, Our walls Are fallen and ruinous.