Briefs, says the learned Benedictine Mabillon, _De Re Diplomaticâ_ (lib. ii. cap. xiv.), _brevi via, seu manu, remotis omnibus ambagibus, absolvuntur; quippe quæ a Pontifice, ut plurimum sponte et absque rei longa discussione conficiuntur_. Footnote 38: We had the good fortune once to pick up at a book-sale in Rome for a few cents a rare and curious little book on this topic, which gives the very marrow of the subject in a very agreeable form: _Lettera di A. L. Nuzzi, Prelato Domestico Del Sommo Pontefice Sull’ Origine ed Uso Del Nome PAPA_. Padova, 1 Settembre, MDCCXCVIII. PALM SUNDAY. Claiming the hill-crowned city as its own, The gray cathedral rears its rough-hewn front Like ancient fortress built to bear the brunt Of leaguering ram on e’er unyielding stone; Signing with holy cross the land it claims, Its walls protecting seek the infinite blue Grown, softly falling painted window through, High heaven brought down to shape life’s noblest aims. In this strong fortress, safe from those salt waves Of doubt that curve and break and evermore repeat The weary lesson of life incomplete, Moaning and groping in unsunny caves, Beating against a rock that will not break, Flinging their bitter anger far on high, Seeking to chill the tender flowers that lie Close nestled to the rock for its warmth’s sake, I kept sad feast one doubting April day, When robins’ song had drifted from the hills, When buds were bursting, and the golden bells Of town-nursed bloom were ringing ill away. With folded hands St. Helen’s glance beneath, I trod in thought the highway of the cross— Jerusalem’s triumph blending with her loss, The palm-bough changing for the thorny wreath. And clasped the folded hands about the bough Of northern hemlock that as palm I bore, Listening the words of sorrow chanted o’er— The old evangel’s solemn voice of woe; O wondrous power of a passing breath! O tearful sweetness of that voice of God Breaking amid the clamor of the crowd Of Jews and soldiers hastening him to death! Often the chant bad stirred my soul before In humbler church, till had familiar grown Almost each word and every varying tone That with each added year a new grace wore; But never grace so pitiful as this That filled the arches with all deep distress, With passionate sense of human guiltiness— Our God sore bruised for our infirmities! Oh! blinding sweet the vision that awoke Within my soul to fill my eyes with tears! To-day was it, not in those long-past years, That Heart divine, with love unbounded, broke. Oh! blinding sweet in its strange melody The voice that, rending heart, called from the cross, In that dark hour of life’s bitterest loss, “_Eli, Eli, lamma sabacthani!_”