The Men of Old

"WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast!Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art,If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart,Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past,By the great Future's dazzling hope made blindTo all the beauty, power, and truth behind.Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put byThe cypress branches and the amaranth blooms,Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombsThe effigies of old confessors lie,God's witnesses; the voices of His will,Heard in the slow march of the centuries stillSuch were the men at whose rebuking frown,Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down;Such from the terrors of the guilty drewThe vassal's freedom and the poor man's due."

St. Anselm (may he rest forevermoreIn Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the saleOf men as slaves, and from the sacred paleHurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor.To ransom souls from bonds and evil fateSt. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate,--Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix,Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks."Man is worth more than temples!" he repliedTo such as came his holy work to chide.And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare,And coining from the Abbey's golden hoardThe captive's freedom, answered to the prayerOr threat of those whose fierce zeal for the LordStifled their love of man,--"An earthen dishThe last sad supper of the Master boreMost miserable sinners! do ye wishMore than your Lord, and grudge His dying poorWhat your own pride and not His need requires?Souls, than these shining gauds, He values moreMercy, not sacrifice, His heart desires!"O faithful worthies! resting far behindIn your dark ages, since ye fell asleep,Much has been done for truth and human-kind;Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind;Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leapThrough peoples driven in your day like sheep;Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light,Though widening still, is walled around by night;With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read,Skeptic at heart, the lessons of its Head;Counting, too oft, its living members lessThan the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress;World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feedLife's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need,Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed;Sect builds and worships where its wealth andprideAnd vanity stand shrined and deified,Careless that in the shadow of its wallsGod's living temple into ruin falls.We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still,Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will,To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trodThe streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell,Proclaiming freedom in the name of God,And startling tyrants with the fear of hellSoft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well;But to rebuke the age's popular crime,We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that oldtime!