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* * * * * WHOEVER will go to Rome may see, | |
| In the chapel of the Sacristy | |
| Of Ara-Cœli, the Sainted Child,— | |
| Garnished from throat to foot with rings | |
| And brooches and precious offerings, | 5 |
| And its little nose kissed quite away | |
| By dying lips. At Epiphany, | |
| If the holy winter day prove mild, | |
| It is shown to the wondering, gaping crowd | |
| On the church’s steps,—held high aloft,— | 10 |
| While every sinful head is bowed, | |
| And the music plays, and the censers’ soft | |
| White breath ascends like silent prayer. | |
| Many a beggar kneeling there, | |
| Tattered and hungry, without a home, | 15 |
| Would not envy the Pope of Rome, | |
| If he, the beggar, had half the care | |
| Bestowed on him that falls to the share | |
| Of yonder Image,—for you must know | |
| It has its minions to come and go, | 20 |
| Its perfumed chamber, remote and still, | |
| Its silken couch, and its jewelled throne, | |
| And a special carriage of its own | |
| To take the air in, when it will. | |
| And though it may neither drink nor eat, | 25 |
| By a nod to its ghostly seneschal | |
| It could have of the choicest wine and meat. | |
| Often some princess, brown and tall, | |
| Comes, and unclasping from her arm | |
| The glittering bracelet, leaves it, warm | 30 |
| With her throbbing pulse, at the Baby’s feet. | |
| Ah, he is loved by high and low, | |
| Adored alike by simple and wise. | |
| The people kneel to him in the street. * * * * * | |
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