 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
104
THE DEATH OF GREGORY XVI.
Antonio!—Gaetano!—Ho! I say—
Where are ye all?—must I lie here and die—
Die all alone, without a creature near?
I faint with pulling at the bell-rope so.
Help, Gaetano! help!—he will not come;
None, none will come to help a poor old man,—
A wretched man that starves to death with thirst.
Still, I am Pope! I am thy Vicar, God!
And in thy holy name I curse them all!
Now let them die beneath the church's ban,
Die, and their souls unsaved hiss down to hell.
Oh! is there none on whom I've heaped my wealth
Will stay beside my bed, and wipe the sweat
From off my brow, and reach to me a drop
Of something, any thing, to cool my mouth?—
There is the distant echo of their feet,
The slam of far-off doors beyond the hall—
What do they there? Oh, for an hour of strength
In these old legs,—but no! I cannot stir,
While they, the villains, ransack all my vaults;
I almost hear them smash the rusted necks
Of cobwebbed bottles filled with rich thick wine,
And swill and laugh, while I burn up with thirst;
Yes, burn like Dives with this hellish thirst—
Give me a drop, I say, of my own wine!
Where are ye all?—must I lie here and die—
Die all alone, without a creature near?
I faint with pulling at the bell-rope so.
Help, Gaetano! help!—he will not come;
None, none will come to help a poor old man,—
A wretched man that starves to death with thirst.
Still, I am Pope! I am thy Vicar, God!
And in thy holy name I curse them all!
Now let them die beneath the church's ban,
Die, and their souls unsaved hiss down to hell.
Oh! is there none on whom I've heaped my wealth
Will stay beside my bed, and wipe the sweat
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Of something, any thing, to cool my mouth?—
There is the distant echo of their feet,
The slam of far-off doors beyond the hall—
What do they there? Oh, for an hour of strength
In these old legs,—but no! I cannot stir,
While they, the villains, ransack all my vaults;
I almost hear them smash the rusted necks
Of cobwebbed bottles filled with rich thick wine,
And swill and laugh, while I burn up with thirst;
Yes, burn like Dives with this hellish thirst—
Give me a drop, I say, of my own wine!
Am I the Pope? why, then, I say come here
You brutes, you beasts, that I so oft have blest.
There's not a peasant that with garlic reeks
And in his foul capanna shakes and burns
With fever, but is better off than I!
He has some friend to reach to his hot lips
At least ditch-water, but I,—I the Pope,
Beneath my gold-embroidered canopy,
I ... curse you, beasts and villains that you are!
You brutes, you beasts, that I so oft have blest.
There's not a peasant that with garlic reeks
And in his foul capanna shakes and burns
With fever, but is better off than I!
He has some friend to reach to his hot lips
At least ditch-water, but I,—I the Pope,
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I ... curse you, beasts and villains that you are!
Hark! there's a step—Gaetano!—Guard!—Holla!
Help! help! come in, whoever you may be!
Come in, I say—no matter for the rules—
Where is the bell—the bell! So, he 's gone too!
Help! help! come in, whoever you may be!
Come in, I say—no matter for the rules—
Where is the bell—the bell! So, he 's gone too!
I'm not so very old but I might live,
Others have lived to greater age than this;
Oh! let me live a few short years at least,
Or but a year, a little year, oh, God!
I have not finished all your work, you know,
And—let me give these villains their reward.
It almost makes me happy, when I think
Were I once well, what I would do for them;
What lodgings they should have! I'd palace them
In some sweet dungeon where the pleasant walls
Should swarm with vermin, drip with oozy mould
And crawl with unimaginable things.
I'd give them dainty fare of mouldy crusts
And fetid water for their luscious drink,
So they should know how sweet it is to lie
The long, black nights, and starve and die like dogs.
Others have lived to greater age than this;
Oh! let me live a few short years at least,
Or but a year, a little year, oh, God!
I have not finished all your work, you know,
And—let me give these villains their reward.
It almost makes me happy, when I think
Were I once well, what I would do for them;
What lodgings they should have! I'd palace them
In some sweet dungeon where the pleasant walls
Should swarm with vermin, drip with oozy mould
And crawl with unimaginable things.
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And fetid water for their luscious drink,
So they should know how sweet it is to lie
The long, black nights, and starve and die like dogs.
And they, their masters, that have bowed and cringed,
Now, while I starve, are marching to and fro
In purple and lace, through lighted palaces
And pursing up their mouths to flatteries
In hopes to get my seat. Oh! let me live,
If but to cheat these Cardinals of mine;
I say I will not yield my seat to them.
Hark! there—that carriage jarring up the court,
That 's one of them to ask if I am dead!
No! no, your Eminence, I'm not yet dead,
Not dead, thank Heaven! I'll live to plague you yet!
There—blessings on you—roll away again!
How many hours have I lain here alone
Without a hand or voice to comfort me,
List'ning the clock there with its sharp fierce tick
And the dull roar of distant carriages,
With none to drive away these noisy flies
That swarm with such persistence round my head,
And buzz and drop, and stinging crawl along
My clammy forehead, down my burning nose,
Till I hide stifling 'neath the coverlid,
For I am grown too faint to brush them off;
Now, too, the lamp fails, and but one wick holds
The tottering flame—the others stinking stream
With noisome smoke till all my darkening room
Is thick and stifling with its poisonous smell,
And that last flicker of light at length will go,
And I be left in darkness all alone.
Now, while I starve, are marching to and fro
In purple and lace, through lighted palaces
And pursing up their mouths to flatteries
In hopes to get my seat. Oh! let me live,
If but to cheat these Cardinals of mine;
I say I will not yield my seat to them.
Hark! there—that carriage jarring up the court,
That 's one of them to ask if I am dead!
No! no, your Eminence, I'm not yet dead,
Not dead, thank Heaven! I'll live to plague you yet!
There—blessings on you—roll away again!
108
Without a hand or voice to comfort me,
List'ning the clock there with its sharp fierce tick
And the dull roar of distant carriages,
With none to drive away these noisy flies
That swarm with such persistence round my head,
And buzz and drop, and stinging crawl along
My clammy forehead, down my burning nose,
Till I hide stifling 'neath the coverlid,
For I am grown too faint to brush them off;
Now, too, the lamp fails, and but one wick holds
The tottering flame—the others stinking stream
With noisome smoke till all my darkening room
Is thick and stifling with its poisonous smell,
And that last flicker of light at length will go,
And I be left in darkness all alone.
O God! God! God! I have been full of sin—
We all are full,—but spare me from thy wrath.
See what a wretched thing thy creature is.
Let me not die now—fill my veins with strength
That I may rule this people yet once more,
Thy vicar on the earth, and teach to them
Thy precepts and the rules of Holy Church.
We all are full,—but spare me from thy wrath.
See what a wretched thing thy creature is.
Let me not die now—fill my veins with strength
109
Thy vicar on the earth, and teach to them
Thy precepts and the rules of Holy Church.
There flares the light out—darkness here at last;
But keep away, Death, keep away to-night,
I cannot die thus in the dark alone—
Oh, God! you will not let me die here all alone.
Holy Madonna, save me! I will burn
A thousand candles in each Church in Rome
Before thy altars; on thy neck I'll hang
A diamond necklace, richer, costlier far
Than the Colonna wears on her full throat,
Or than outdazzles Piombino's eyes,
If you will save me from this horrid death.
But keep away, Death, keep away to-night,
I cannot die thus in the dark alone—
Oh, God! you will not let me die here all alone.
Holy Madonna, save me! I will burn
A thousand candles in each Church in Rome
Before thy altars; on thy neck I'll hang
A diamond necklace, richer, costlier far
Than the Colonna wears on her full throat,
Or than outdazzles Piombino's eyes,
If you will save me from this horrid death.
Soft! I have slept, I think; fainted perhaps,
Who knows? but now I wake—ah, yes, again
The infernal darkness, stench, and buzz of flies!
Oh happy dream! come back with your rich wines!
Champagne all beady foaming to its brim,
Rich inky Aleatico, the cool
Soft roughness of delicious old Bordeaux,
Flasks of rare Orvieto, thinly sweet,
All these were flowing down my thirsty throat,
In a great stream I stood up to my neck
And they were gurgling in my burning mouth.
Why did I wake to such a cursed life?
Oh! let me dream forever such a dream!
If that be heaven—'tis heaven enough for me.
Who knows? but now I wake—ah, yes, again
The infernal darkness, stench, and buzz of flies!
Oh happy dream! come back with your rich wines!
110
Rich inky Aleatico, the cool
Soft roughness of delicious old Bordeaux,
Flasks of rare Orvieto, thinly sweet,
All these were flowing down my thirsty throat,
In a great stream I stood up to my neck
And they were gurgling in my burning mouth.
Why did I wake to such a cursed life?
Oh! let me dream forever such a dream!
If that be heaven—'tis heaven enough for me.
What 's this I've found? some scattered lemon seeds
Tipped from the glass I drained such hours ago,
How sweet they taste—Good God! how sweet they taste!
Yet stop, I must be careful, they 're so few.
Tipped from the glass I drained such hours ago,
How sweet they taste—Good God! how sweet they taste!
Yet stop, I must be careful, they 're so few.
My strength is going, and my head swims round;
What is this sudden change? Death, death, perhaps,
And no one near with the Viaticum.
Go call a priest, a priest! Of all the crowd
That fawned upon me, is there none will come
And bring the blessed sacrament and place
The holy wafer on these feverish lips?
Shall I lose heaven? some one come quick, come quick
And help me or my soul will else be lost.
What is this sudden change? Death, death, perhaps,
And no one near with the Viaticum.
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That fawned upon me, is there none will come
And bring the blessed sacrament and place
The holy wafer on these feverish lips?
Shall I lose heaven? some one come quick, come quick
And help me or my soul will else be lost.
Where is my cope? that richest one I mean,
Stiff with embroidered gold and precious stones.
Fools! bring it quick, I say—tis time to go;
And that great emerald clasp, Cellini's work—
Have you forgot that? you 're such blunderers.
Now then, your Eminences, now to mass!
Stiff with embroidered gold and precious stones.
Fools! bring it quick, I say—tis time to go;
And that great emerald clasp, Cellini's work—
Have you forgot that? you 're such blunderers.
Now then, your Eminences, now to mass!
Spirits, avaunt! ye come to mock me here—
What! will you flee not at the Papal sign?
Off! off! I say—I never did you wrong,
I know you not with your gaunt, haggard cheeks,
And lamping eyes, and withered, crooked limbs.
Why point your fingers at me thus, and thus
Make imprecation on my dying head?
Help! Gaetano! Guard! help! help! I say.
Here are the dead men bloody from the axe,
And ghastly prisoners with their clanking chains,
Dancing the dance of death around my bed,
They strangle me I say,—help! help! oh, help!
Am I not God's vicegerent on the earth?
What! will you flee not at the Papal sign?
Off! off! I say—I never did you wrong,
I know you not with your gaunt, haggard cheeks,
And lamping eyes, and withered, crooked limbs.
Why point your fingers at me thus, and thus
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Help! Gaetano! Guard! help! help! I say.
Here are the dead men bloody from the axe,
And ghastly prisoners with their clanking chains,
Dancing the dance of death around my bed,
They strangle me I say,—help! help! oh, help!
Am I not God's vicegerent on the earth?
Note.—Gregory XVI. died in the Vatican during the night of the 31st of May, 1846, alone, utterly deserted by even the meanest of his attendants, and suffering for want of the wine prescribed by his physicians as necessary to his sustenance. He was found dead in his bed by his physicians when they visited him in the morning; and at the post mortem examination nothing was found in his stomach but a few lemon seeds. He was 82 years old. In character he was ambitious and cruel; in habits grossly intemperate. A full account of the circumstances of the Pope's death is given by Professor Gajani, in his Memoirs of a Roman Exile, chap. xxxvi.
| Poems by William W. Story | |