LINES ON THE PONTIFICAL HAT PRESERVED IN MADAME UZIELLI'S PRIVATE ORATORY.
O high exalted instinct of the soul!
That evermore doth find
A grace and hidden splendor not their own
In things of curious kind;
Casket, or signet-ring, or coat of mail,
Or ermined robe of state,
That once belonged to history's champions,
The good, the wise, the great!
This relic fair, which love most Catholic
Devoutly treasures here,
To me, beholding it, than rubied crown
More glorious doth appear.
For cinctured round with spiry wheaten ears
And clustering grapes of gold,
Types of the pure oblation offered now
For bloody rites of old,
Here, (by no freak of fancy,) underneath
Its rim of mystic red,
It shaded from a Roman summer's sun
The sacred snow-white head
Of our dear Pius; as from church to church,
Amidst the kneeling throng,
Serene he passed—a vision of delight,
The ancient ways along!
Angels of Rome! oh! shield that head beloved
From danger and all fears;
Watch o'er the pontiff brave, the sovereign good,
The priest of fifty years!
And when his hour arrives, so long postponed
By Christendom's fond prayer,
May he in heaven's own hierarchy throned,
Be still our glory there!
E. Caswall.
Oratory, Birmingham.