_Adrian._ He gave to me the empire of the earth When this great mantly I put on, and took The Church's high seat I was chosen to; The word of God did erst create the world, And now mine guides it. Would'st thou that the soul Should serve the body? Thou dost dream of freedom, And makest war on him who sole on earth Can shield man from his tyrants. O Arnaldo, Be Wise; believe me, all thy words are vain, Vain sound that perish or disperse themselves Amidst the wilderness of Rome. I only Can speak the words that the whole world repeats. _Arnaldo_. Thy words were never Freedom's; placed between The people and their tyrants, still the Church With the weak cruel, with the mighty vile, Has been, and crushed in pitiless embraces That emperors and pontiffs have exchanged. Man has been ever. * * * * * Why seek'st thou empire here, and great on earth Art mean in heaven? Ah! vainly in thy prayer Thou criest, “Let the heart be lifted up!” 'T is ever bowed to earth. * * * * * Now, then, if thou wilt, Put forth the power that thou dost vaunt; repress The crimes of bishops, make the Church ashamed To be a step-mother to the poor and lowly. In all the Lombard cities every priest Has grown a despot, in shrewd perfidy Now siding with the Church, now with the Empire. They have dainty food, magnificent apparel, Lascivious joys, and on their altars cold Gathers the dust, where lies the miter dropt, Forgotten, from the haughty brow that wears The helmet, and no longer bows itself Before God's face in th' empty sanctuaries; But upon the fields of slaughter, smoking still, Bends o'er the fallen foe, and aims the blows O' th' sacrilegious sword, with cruel triumph Insulting o'er the prayers of dying men. There the priest rides o'er breasts of fallen foes, And stains with blood his courser's iron heel. When comes a brief, false peace, and wearily Amidst the havoc doth the priest sit down, His pleasures are a crime, and after rapine Luxury follows. Like a thief he climbs Into the fold, and that desired by day He dares amid the dark, and violence Is the priest's marriage. Vainly did Rome hope That they had thrown aside the burden vile Of the desires that weigh down other men. Theirs is the ungrateful lust of the wild beast, That doth forget the mother nor knows the child. ... On the altar of Christ, Who is the prince of pardon and of peace, Vows of revenge are registered, and torches That are thrown into hearts of leaguered cities Are lit from tapers burning before God. Become thou king of sacrifice; ascend The holy hill of God; on these perverse Launch thou thy thunderbolts; and feared again And great thou wilt be. Tell me, Adrian,