Ye Alpine rocks!  If less your peaks elate
    To heaven exalt you than that gift divine,
    Freedom; why do your children still combine
    To keep the despots in their stolen state? 
Lo, for a piece of bread from windows wide
    You fling your blood, taking no thought what cause,
    Righteous or wrong, your strength to battle draws;
    So is your valour spurned and vilified. 
All things belong to free men; but the slave
    Clothes and feeds poorly.  Even so from you
    Broad lands and Malta’s knighthood men withhold. 
Up, free yourselves, and act as heroes do! 
    Go, take your own from tyrants, which you gave
    So recklessly, and they so dear have sold!

XXXIII.

THE SAMARITAN.

Da Roma ad Ostia.

From Rome to Ostia a poor man went;
    Thieves robbed and wounded him upon the way;
    Some monks, great saints, observed him where he lay,
    And left him, on their breviaries intent. 
A Bishop passed thereby, and careless bent
    To sign the cross, a blessing brief to say;
    But a great Cardinal, to clutch their prey,
    Followed the thieves, falsely benevolent. 
At last there came a German Lutheran,
    Who builds on faith, merit of works withstands;
    He raised and clothed and healed the dying man. 
    Now which of these was worthiest, most humane? 
The heart is better than the head, kind hands
    Than cold lip-service; faith without works is vain. 
            Who understands
    What creed is good and true for self and others?—­
    But none can doubt the good he doth his brothers.

XXXIV.

HYPOCRITES.

Nessun ti venne a dir.

Who comes and saith:  ‘A Tyrant, lo, am I!’
    And, ‘I am Antichrist!’ what man will swear? 
    The crafty rogue, hiding his poisonous ware,
    Sells you what slays your soul, for sanctity. 
Cheats, brigands, prostitutes, and all that fry,
    Not having fashioned so devout a snare,
    Appear worse sinners than perhaps they are;
    For where the craft’s small, small’s the villainy;
You’re on your guard.  The meek Samaritan
    Makes way before those guileful Pharisees,
    Though God assigned to him the higher place. 
    Not words nor wonders prove a virtuous man,
But deeds and acts.  How many deities
    Hath this false standard given the human race!

XXXV.

SOPHISTS.

Nessun ti verra a dire.

‘Behold, I am a Sophist!’ no man saith. 
    But the true sons of perfidy refined
    Forge theologic lies the soul to blind,
    Calling themselves evangels of the faith. 
Aretine with his scoundrels blew his breath,