And thou hast seen yon priest in holy stole,
But thinkest, never yet a jackal's skin,
Embodied more hereditary sin--
And he with healing ointment for the soul,
May not remember when his own was whole.
Behold a myriad monks he ushereth in
Whom dol'rous chant pronounceth holy kin,
And yet each readeth from a foreign scroll.
When all these jarring sects pronounce decree,
Then must thou wait another _Fiat lux_.
Old Chaos slumbering in eternity,
Hath writ his secret hope in monkish books,
That some shall beckon when his reign shall be--
And even now the priestly finger crooks.