What if the barbarous
Nazarene fury,
Fed by the base rites
Of secret feastings,
Lights sacred torches
To burn down the temples,
Scattering abroad
The scrolls hieroglyphic?
In thee find refuge
The humble-roofed plebs,
Who have not forgotten
The gods of their household.
Thence comes the power,
Fervid and loving, that,
Filling the quick-throbbing
Bosom of woman,
Turns to the succor
Of nature enfeebled;
A sorceress pallid,
With endless care laden.
Thou to the trance-holden
Eye of the alchemist,
Thou to the view of the
Bigoted mago,
Showest the lightning-flash
Of the new time
Shining behind the dark
Bars of the cloister.
Seeking to fly from thee,
Here in the world-life
Hides him the gloomy monk
In Theban deserts.
O soul that wanderest
Far from the straight way,
Satan is merciful.—
See Heloisa!
In vain you wear yourself
Thin in rough gown; I
Still murmur the verses
Of Maro and Flaccus