On the Napoleonic Imprisonment of Pius VII
They came. They took our shepherd, and we mourned,
The light of day was blunted by our fears,
And every form of false belief returned,
As fright and terror mingled with our tears.
How long, we wondered, must we orphans wait,
Before our Papa would at last see Rome?
Or if tomorrow jubilation’s gate
Might open for his welcome coming home.
But then, as we sat weeping on the banks
Of Babylon, did we remember well,
That we had yet to give sufficient thanks
For Mary’s helps, too numerous to tell.
Was ever there, in art or peace or war,
Some grace that, through her hands, God did not pour?
From Sonnets for Heaven’s Queen © Joseph Charles MacKenzie. All rights reserved.