To such a picture of our Lady, hit Off well by artist-angels (though not half As fair as Giotto would have painted it)-- To such a vial, where a dead man's blood Runs yearly warm beneath a churchman's finger,-- To such a holy house of stone and wood, Whereof a cloud of angels was the bringer From Bethlehem to Loreto. Were it good For any pope on earth to be a flinger Of stones against these high-niched counterfeits? Apostates only are iconoclasts. He dares not say, while this false thing abets That true thing, "This is false." He keeps his fasts And prayers, as prayer and fast were silver frets To change a note upon a string that lasts, And make a lie a virtue. Now, if he Did more than this, higher hoped, and braver dared, I think he were a pope in jeopardy, Or no pope rather, for his truth had barred The vaulting of his life,--and certainly, If he do only this, mankind's regard Moves on from him at once, to seek some new Teacher and leader. He is good and great According to the deeds a pope can do; Most liberal, save those bonds; affectionate, As princes may be, and, as priests are, true; But only the Ninth Pius after eight, When all's praised most. At best and hopefullest, He's pope--we want a man! his heart beats warm, But, like the prince enchanted to the waist, He sits in stone and hardens by a charm Into the marble of his throne high-placed. Mild benediction waves his saintly arm-- So, good! but what we want's a perfect man, Complete and all alive: half travertine Half suits our need, and ill subserves our plan. Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies divine Were never yet too much for men who ran In such hard ways as must be this of thine, Deliverer whom we seek, whoe'er thou art, Pope, prince, or peasant! If, indeed, the first, The noblest, therefore! since the heroic heart Within thee must be great enough to burst Those trammels buckling to the baser part Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed and cursed With the same finger.