Faith is the spirit that makes man's body and blood Sacred, to crown when life and death have ceased His heavenward head for high fame's holy feast; But as one swordstroke swift as wizard's rod Made Caesar carrion and made Brutus God, Faith false or true, born patriot or born priest, Smites into semblance or of man or beast The soul that feeds on clean or unclean food. Lo here the faith that lives on its own light, Visible music; and lo there, the foul Shape without shape, the harpy throat and howl. Sword of the spirit of man! arise and smite, And sheer through throat and claw and maw and tongue Kill the beast faith that lives on its own dung. 

      IX THE AUGURS 

      Lay the corpse out on the altar; bid the elect Slaves clear the ways of service spiritual, Sweep clean the stalled soul's serviceable stall, Ere the chief priest's dismantling hands detect The ulcerous flesh of faith all scaled and specked Beneath the bandages that hid it all, And with sharp edgetools oecumenical The leprous carcases of creeds dissect. As on the night ere Brutus grew divine The sick-souled augurs found their ox or swine Heartless; so now too by their after art In the same Rome, at an uncleaner shrine, Limb from rank limb, and putrid part from part, They carve the corpse—a beast without a heart. 

      X A COUNSEL 

      O strong Republic of the nobler years Whose white feet shine beside time's fairer flood That shall flow on the clearer for our blood Now shed, and the less brackish for our tears; When time and truth have put out hopes and fears With certitude, and love has burst the bud, If these whose powers then down the wind shall scud Still live to feel thee smite their eyes and ears, When thy foot's tread hath crushed their crowns and creeds, Care thou not then to crush the beast that bleeds, The snake whose belly cleaveth to the sod, Nor set thine heel on men as on their deeds; But let the worm Napoleon crawl untrod, Nor grant Mastai the gallows of his God. 1869. 

      XI THE MODERATES 

      Virtutem videant intabescantque relicta. She stood before her traitors bound and bare, Clothed with her wounds and with her naked shame As with a weed of fiery tears and flame, Their mother-land, 

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