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“My Father’s house ye made a den of thieves,”

Said Christ to priests who wrought for Him a cross,

But afterwards, full often, in His name

The priesthood has been guilty of the same:

What was a sister nation’s grievous loss,

They proudly stored in dusky sacristies.

Such was the plunder of the noble art,

Which Philip from the Netherlands did take,

Such, too, the treasures which Napoleon

With ruthless warfare from the nations won;

Thus ever, where the priest his sign doth make

Upon the sin which pierced the sacred heart.

Such guilt may, even in Sordino’s times,

Have rested upon some Parisian church,

Or abbey in its strange seclusiveness,

But everywhere he found but weariness,

Resulting from his all persistent search,

And nowhere did he see nor hear his chimes.

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Why should a soul consume its power and peace

In quest of that which useless seems and vague,

In following mirages of ideals,

And pass through many harassing ordeals,

Endure the cruel sneer of mobs that plague,