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The bird and the bell, with other poems | ||
11
XXX.
But thou, O Church! didst steal the mother's mask,The counterfeit of Heaven,—so to enfold
Thy flock around thee. None looked near, to ask
“Art thou our mother, truly?” None so bold
As lift thy veils, and show how hard and cold
Those eyes of tyranny, that mouth of guile,
That low and narrow brow, the witchcraft of that smile,—
The bird and the bell, with other poems | ||