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CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN ST. PETER'S.
Low on the marble floor I lie:
I am alone:
Though friendly voices whisper nigh,
And foreign crowds are passing by,
I am alone.
Great hymns float through
The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow
Refrain, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
I am alone:
Though friendly voices whisper nigh,
And foreign crowds are passing by,
I am alone.
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The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow
Refrain, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
With tender joy all others thrill;
I have but tears:
The false priests' voices, high and shrill,
Reiterate the “Peace, good-will;”
I have but tears.
I hear anew
The nails and scourge; then come the low
Sad words, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
I have but tears:
The false priests' voices, high and shrill,
Reiterate the “Peace, good-will;”
I have but tears.
I hear anew
The nails and scourge; then come the low
Sad words, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
Close by my side the poor souls kneel;
I turn away;
Half-pitying looks at me they steal;
They think, because I do not feel,
I turn away.
Ah! if they knew,
How following them, where'er they go,
I hear, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
I turn away;
Half-pitying looks at me they steal;
They think, because I do not feel,
I turn away.
Ah! if they knew,
How following them, where'er they go,
I hear, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
Above the organ's sweetest strains
I hear the groans
Of prisoners, who lie in chains,
So near, and in such mortal pains,
I hear the groans.
But Christ walks through
The dungeons of St. Angelo,
And says, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
I hear the groans
Of prisoners, who lie in chains,
So near, and in such mortal pains,
I hear the groans.
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The dungeons of St. Angelo,
And says, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
And now the music sinks to sighs;
The lights grow dim:
The Pastorella's melodies
In lingering echoes float and rise;
The lights grow dim;
More clear and true,
In this sweet silence, seem to flow
The words, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
The lights grow dim:
The Pastorella's melodies
In lingering echoes float and rise;
The lights grow dim;
More clear and true,
In this sweet silence, seem to flow
The words, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do.”
The dawn swings incense, silver gray;
The night is past;
Now comes, triumphant, God's full day;
No priest, no church can bar its way:
The night is past:
How, on this blue
Of God's great banner, blaze and glow
The words, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do!”
The night is past;
Now comes, triumphant, God's full day;
No priest, no church can bar its way:
The night is past:
How, on this blue
Of God's great banner, blaze and glow
The words, “Forgive them, for they know
Not what they do!”
Rome, December 26, 1868.
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