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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Anti-Slavery Poems (search)
cter with widespread and permanent injury. So, this is all,—the utmost reach Of priestly power the mind to fetter! When laymen think, when women preach, A war of words, a ‘Pastoral Letter!’ Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! Was it thus with those, your predecessors, Who sealed with racks, and fire; and ropes Their loving-kindness to transgressors? A ‘ Pastoral Letter,’ grave and dull; Alas! in hoof and horns and features, How different is your Brookfield bull From him who bellows from St. Peter's! Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, Think ye, can words alone preserve them? Your wiser fathers taught the arm And sword of temporal power to serve them. Oh, glorious days, when Church and State Were wedded by your spiritual fathers! And on submissive shoulders sat Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers. No vile ‘itinerant ’ then could mar The beauty of your tranquil Zion, But at his peril of the scar Of hangman's whip and branding-iron. Then, wholesome laws relieved the C
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Songs of Labour and Reform (search)
jawed rascal in epaulets done? He did, whispers rumor, (its truth God forbid!) At Perugia what Herod at Bethlehem did. And the mothers? Don't name them! these humors of war They who keep him in service must pardon him for. Hist! here's the arch-knave in a cardinal's hat, With the heart of a wolf, and the stealth of a, cat (As if Judas and Herod together were rolled), Who keeps, all as one, the Pope's conscience and gold, Mounts guard on the altar, and pilfers from thence, And flatters St. Peter while stealing his pence! Who doubts Antonelli? Have miracles ceased When robbers say mass, and Barabbas is priest? When the Church eats and drinks, at its mystical board, The true flesh and blood carved and shed by its sword, When its martyr, unsinged, claps the crown on his head, And roasts, as his proxy, his neighbor instead! There! the bells jow and jangle the same blessed way That they did when they rang for Bartholomew's day. Hark! the tallow-faced monsters, nor women nor boys,