Made free of his absence, begin to rejoice,
And he halts in alarm lest perchance, if he cries out,
Those creatures, fit only to furnish him food,
Already by liberty render'd loquacious,
Picking up heart and becoming audacious,
Should forthwith fall to picking his eyes out.
Indeed, one might fairly surmise
By the noise in the streets, the shouts and cries,
That all the men and women in Rome,
From the People's Gate to St. Peter's dome,
Tho' clad in mourning each and all,
Were making the most of some festival.
Walking, driving, talking, striving,
Pushing, rushing,
Crowding, crushing,
Crying, outvying
In selling and buying,
Each with the rest,
To do his best,
To add to the tumult, each contriving
To make, in pursuit of his special joys,
Somewhat more than the usual noise.
Since it is not every day in the week
That one Pope dies, and another's to seek;
Such an event is a thing to treasure.
For a general mourning's a general meeting,
A sort of general grief-competing,
Which leads, of course, to a general greeting
(Not to mention general drinking and eating)
That is quite a general pleasure.
The universal animation,
In a word, you could hardly underrate.
So much to talk of, so much to wonder at!
The Ambassadors, first, of every nation,
Representing the whole world's tribulation,
Each of them grander than the other
In due gradation for admiration;
How they looked, how they spoke, what sort of speeches?
What sort of mantles, coats, collars, and breeches?
Then the Cardinals all in a sumptuous smother
Of piety warm'd by the expectation
That glow'd in the breast of each Eminent Brother,
Of assuming a yet more eminent station,
Much, he hoped, to each well-beloved brother's vexation.
And then, the Archbishops, and Bishops, and Priors,
And Abbots, and Orders of various Friars,
Treading like men that are treading on briars,
Doubtful whom in the new race now for the state run
They should hasten to claim as their hopeful patron.
The Nobles too, and their Noble Families,
Prouder each than the very devil,
Yet turn'd all at once appallingly civil,
And masking their noble animosities,
For the sake of combining further atrocities;
And, after each of the Noble Families,
Each Noble Family's faithful Following,
Who, picking their way while the crowd kept holloaing,
Stuck close to their chiefs, and proudly eyed them,
Much the same as each well-provender'd camel eyes,
In the drouthy desert, when groaning under
Their pleasing weight of public plunder,
The dainty despot boys who ride them.
A host, too, of Saints with their special religions
And patrons, of rival rank and station,
Deck'd out in all manners
Of ribbons and banners,
Painted papers
And burning tapers
Enough to set in a conflagration
The world; you would think by the fume and flare of them
And the smoky faces of those that took care of them,
Marching along with a mighty noise
Of barking dogs, and shouts and cheers,
Brass music and bands of singing-boys
Doing their best to split men's ears,
And starting up the very pigeons
On the roof-tops all in a consternation.

The excitement was surely justifiable.
The more so if, having fairly computed
The importance, necessity, and function
Of a Pope, as divinely instituted,
You consider the fact, which is undeniable,
That, when deprived of its special pastor,
The whole of earth's flock, without compunction,
Must consider itself consigned to disaster.
For if the world, say,
Could go on as it should,
Doing its duty, fair and good,
Missing no crumb of its heavenly food,
For even a week or a day,
In the absence of Heaven's representative—
Might it not be assumed from any such tentative
Process, if this each time succeeded,
That a Pope on the whole was hardly needed?
And that, if it could ever befal
That Heaven should be pleased, after due delay,
Its Viceroy on Earth to recal,
And abolish the past—just as good and as gay
The world would go on in the usual way
Without a Pope at all?

One thing, however, was justly provoking:
Amidst the millions jostling, joking,
As merry as so many prodigal sons
Having kill'd and roasted their fatted calf
And enjoying the chance to quaff and laugh—
There was not one of the millions
Who seem'd aware of the dead Pope there,
Or even very much to care
What meanwhile had become of His Holiness,
How he must feel now, or how he might fare,
Who all the while, was nevertheless
Sole cause of the general joyousness!
It was certainly hard to bear.
But why bear it longer?
His heart beat stronger:
If he raised his hand, would any man stand?
If he called would any man come
Of the million men and women in Rome
So lately at his command?
His hand be raised. No man look'd to it.
His finger. Not a knee was crook'd to it.
He raised his voice. No man heeded it.
He gave his blessing. No man needed it.
'Twas the merest waste of benevolence
(Since the holiday went on with or without him);
He might have been, to all intents,
The golden Saint stuck up on the steeple,
Who is always blessing a thankless people,
Nobody caring a button about him.
A Pope's blessing: and nobody bless'd by it!
A Pope's menace: and no man impress'd by it!
A Pope's curse: and no one distress'd by it!
Had the world been suddenly deafen'd and blinded?
The dead Pope menaced: nobody minded.
The dead Pope call'd: not a creature hasten'd.
The dead Pope cursed: no sinner seem'd chasten'd.
He might bless or curse, neither better nor worse,
For a single word that he said.
On its wonted way a world perverse
Went onward, nobody bowing the head