 | Poems by a Painter |  |
157
ST PETER'S:
A TYPE.
And this is San Pietro! This the shrineWhere, for so many centuries, have bowed
In abject awe the unreflecting crowd
Of votaries—even as to a thing divine!
But men begin to know thee now, and smile
At their past blindness: seeing thee most vile,
Despite thy braggart bulk and vulgar waste
Of precious things—faith, genius, energy—
Most precious they of all; and most misplaced
Thus dedicate, prodigious Sham, to Thee!—
Within, without, o'erwritten with the name
Of the crowned Beast, and blazoned with the shame
Of his pollution! Shall it long be so,
Just Heaven?—My heart is sick and angry; let us go!
Rome, October 1861.
| Poems by a Painter | |