The Volunteers For Pius IX.
Both from Rome and France these men have earned a radiant crown of merit;
As they drew their sword of fire, all hell, with trembling, saw its flashings.
What their name? One—Christians! Fear no more when such have come to guard thee,
Throne and home of Pius!
On they came, those boasters, fed by Rapine, armed by drivelling Folly,
Eager to profane with blood-stained hands the apostolic altar.
They were met. And now, as ever, at thy gates, O holy City!
Hate by Love is conquered.
At thy pure and sacred majesty they dared, O holy Pontiff!
Dared to mock with cries defiant; and like wolves for blood were thirsting—
Thine! No, never! Thou hast drunk enough of Suffering's bitter chalice.
Father! look—thy children!
These for thee have gladly quitted wives and mothers, home and country:
When the clamorous dastards cried, "Down with the Pope!" then these, uprising,
Clutched their arms, and shoulder unto shoulder marched. "Fear not!" they shouted,
"We will come and save thee!"
In their faces gleamed the sacred fire that burns in breasts of Frenchmen!
If but one of them should fall—for thee the boon of life disdaining—
From their country's borders there would rise upon the morrow morning
Thousands to avenge them.
Only that one day, at least, the Christian phalanx—serried closely,
So that heart may beat to heart—could know that thou hast gazed upon them;
Only that the Holy Church in prayer their names will once remember,
Death they gladly welcome.
Holy Father, keep thy double sceptre and thy stainless glory!
Rome is spared to thee and thou to Rome. Not yet, O sacred exile!
Heaven will claim thee soon enough, and then, bereaved of thy dear presence,
We shall be the exiles.
Yes; the Christian world has sworn that thou from Rome shalt not be driven,
As a gage it sends these dauntless heroes forward to thy rescue.
Look upon them. Mark that steady tread, those eyes that flash forth victory.
Raise thy hand and bless them!
On to triumph, cavaliers of Christ! Yea, Lord, for thee they conquer,
When they overcome the enemies of him who represents thee.
Count this faithful band, O Thou who in thine hour of dereliction
Saw all thine desert thee!
You whose dear and sacred memory is upon our hearts engraven—
You, who were the elder brethren of this youthful band of heroes—
You, who bore the white cross banner till the hands of all fell lifeless
At Castelfidardo—
You were there! And more than one of these beheld your glorious spirits
Hovering o'er them as they proudly fell and yielded up their life-blood,
Waiting with the crowns and palms prepared for such as should be honored
So to die and conquer.
Happy ye, O chosen ones! your death is fruitful. Ever passing
Through the world the Church broadcasts her seed in sadness;
Harvesting in turn with overflowing hands upon the places
Sown with blood of martyrs.
Mothers, wives, they come not back, the nearest, dearest that have left you!
Weep! He also wept. But ponder well the words that He has spoken:
"Greater love no man may show for him he loves than dying for him."
Even thus they loved Him!
Weep! but sing a song of triumph as the bitter tears are flowing.
Blest are ye who, in his temple, humbly kneeling at the altar,
There can offer him a sacrificial incense of such sorrow
With such glory mingled!