XLV. TO SAINT CHARLES BORROMEO, ON THE MASSACRE AT MILAN.
I
Saint, beyond all in glory who surround
The throne above!
Thy placid brow no thorn blood-dropping crown'd,
No grief came o'er thy love,
II
Save what they suffer'd whom the Plague's dull fire
Wasted away,
Or those whom Heaven at last let worse Desire
Sweep with soft swoop away.
III
If thou art standing high above the place
Where Verban gleams,
Where Art and Nature give thee form and space
As best beseems,
IV
Look down on thy fair country, and most fair
The sister isles!
Whence gratitude eternal mounts with prayer,
Where spring eternal smiles;
V
Watch over that brave youth who bears thy name,
And bears it well,
Unmindful never of the sacred flame
With which his temples swell.
VI
When praise from thousands breathes beneath thy shrine,
And incense steeps
Thy calm brow bending over them, for thine
Is bent on him who weeps;
VII
And, O most holy one! what tears are shed
Thro' all thy town!
Thou wilt with pity on the brave and dead,
God will with wrath, look down.
