The handmaid of her Maker, fair with lustre not of earth.
Should she to Piedmont’s Victor bend her brow of heavenly birth?
The mother of all peoples where the cross’s light is shed,
Was my dull, narrow diadem fit crown to grace her head?
In her old palace I sit throned, crowned with her earthly crown,
With jealous care watched ever, lest I cast the honor down.
I see my children wander wide in exile from their own,
And, when they ask for living bread, my masters give them stone.
I sit beside St. Peter’s chair; like his, my hands are bound;
My eyes weep bitter sorrow at your pæans’ wild, glad sound;