THE GRAY BROTHER.
The Pope he was saying the high, high mass,
All on saint Peter's day,
With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven,
To wash men's sins away.
The pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And the people kneel'd around,
And from each man's soul his sins did pass,
As he kiss'd the holy ground.
And all, among the crowded throng,
Was still, both limb and tongue,
While thro' vaulted roof, and aisles aloof,
The holy accents rung.
At the holiest word, he quiver'd for fear,
And faulter'd in the sound—
And, when he would the chalice rear,
He dropp'd it on the ground.
"The breath of one of evil deed
"Pollutes our sacred day;
"He has no portion in our creed,
"No part in what I say.
"A being, whom no blessed word
"To ghostly peace can bring;
"A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,
"Recoils each holy thing.
"Up! up! unhappy! haste, arise!
"My adjuration fear!
"I charge thee not to stop my voice,
"Nor longer tarry here!"