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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
That hour which made me Pope
Temptation came to me till then unknown,
A thought pride-born, ‘Build thou a Church to Him
To whom the Saviour said, “Thou art the Rock,”
A Church three times transcending Constantine's!’
Such act had warred against my true vocation
And left my life a mockery. I was saved.
The consecration past, all Rome rejoiced:
The Coronation feast begun, a missive
Was laid beside me by a hand unseen.
Its words still haunt me, ‘Keep thine earlier vow:
Make it thy breast-plate and thy diadem.
Dream not that rearing Solomonian fanes
Shall quit thy debt. Austerer tasks are thine.
Lift thou God's besom in a stalwart hand
And cleanse God's threshing-floor! Abase the proud:
Be terrible to heresy and schism,
More terrible to tyranny and greed:
Trample the robber-brood with feet blood-red
As His that treads His wine-press. Save God's Church
Like Leo hurling back the Huns from Rome:
So shalt thou live the lion of God's Tribe;
So, life surceased, inherit on God's hills,
Thine eyes fast fixed upon the Eternal Face,
By Eden springs thine everlasting lair.’
Temptation came to me till then unknown,
A thought pride-born, ‘Build thou a Church to Him
To whom the Saviour said, “Thou art the Rock,”
A Church three times transcending Constantine's!’
Such act had warred against my true vocation
And left my life a mockery. I was saved.
The consecration past, all Rome rejoiced:
The Coronation feast begun, a missive
Was laid beside me by a hand unseen.
Its words still haunt me, ‘Keep thine earlier vow:
Make it thy breast-plate and thy diadem.
Dream not that rearing Solomonian fanes
297
Lift thou God's besom in a stalwart hand
And cleanse God's threshing-floor! Abase the proud:
Be terrible to heresy and schism,
More terrible to tyranny and greed:
Trample the robber-brood with feet blood-red
As His that treads His wine-press. Save God's Church
Like Leo hurling back the Huns from Rome:
So shalt thou live the lion of God's Tribe;
So, life surceased, inherit on God's hills,
Thine eyes fast fixed upon the Eternal Face,
By Eden springs thine everlasting lair.’
Hugo, that hour it was my life began!
That missive read, mine earlier aspirations
Changed to resolves. They warred against three sins:
The first was ‘Simony’—that leprous plague
Which downward drags the Church's flesh, and leaves
Her bones all glaring. Bishoprics themselves
In public mart were sold like sheep or swine;
The Spirit's gifts—the Spirit Himself, Who still
Lives in His gifts. Men called it ‘Time's abuse:’
To such I answered, ‘Better sin the sin
Than, tempted not, thus falteringly reprove it.’
That missive read, mine earlier aspirations
Changed to resolves. They warred against three sins:
The first was ‘Simony’—that leprous plague
Which downward drags the Church's flesh, and leaves
Her bones all glaring. Bishoprics themselves
In public mart were sold like sheep or swine;
The Spirit's gifts—the Spirit Himself, Who still
Lives in His gifts. Men called it ‘Time's abuse:’
To such I answered, ‘Better sin the sin
Than, tempted not, thus falteringly reprove it.’
The second of those sins, ‘Investitures!’
This Emperor's sire deposed three Popes, yet deemed
He reigned Protector of the Papal Chair.
What makes bad bishops but elections false?
A prince, a layman, puts me forth his hand,
And on the finger of the purchasing priest,
Likeliest some comrade of his losel hours,
Descends a ring! That priest stands up a bishop!
O how unlike such prince to Charlemagne,
So reverent to God's Church, or England's Alfred;
All know his saying: ‘Kings are kings elsewhere;
Kings in God's Church are simple citizens:’
Edward the Confessor made like confession.
The strife was long! How many bishops holp me!
In Germany but five; in Lombardy
Seven and no more!
This Emperor's sire deposed three Popes, yet deemed
He reigned Protector of the Papal Chair.
What makes bad bishops but elections false?
A prince, a layman, puts me forth his hand,
And on the finger of the purchasing priest,
Likeliest some comrade of his losel hours,
Descends a ring! That priest stands up a bishop!
O how unlike such prince to Charlemagne,
So reverent to God's Church, or England's Alfred;
All know his saying: ‘Kings are kings elsewhere;
298
Edward the Confessor made like confession.
The strife was long! How many bishops holp me!
In Germany but five; in Lombardy
Seven and no more!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |