THE EIGHT OF DECEMBER, 1854

The sun has gone down on the Sev'nth of December

When peals from the belfries woke hill-top and dome,

And quickened the ardor of vehement yearning

Which throbbed in the heart of Pontifical Rome.

But why, kingly people, these vesperal volleys?

Have victors arrived with their spoils and their throng?

Or have you decided to bind with fresh laurel

The brow of a favorite child of sweet song?

No, no; for your Capitol opens its portals

No longer to victor or patriot bard;

A scene more imposing, a sanctified pageant

Awaits on the morrow your anxious regard.

That morrow auspiciously breaks o'er the City

And kindles all hearts with its orient glow:

The air is now vocal with joyous commotion,

As on to St. Peter's the multitudes flow.

The moment has come in the cycle of ages

So ardently looked for by Doctor and Saint

To publicly honor with due recognition

Our Lady's conception as free from all taint.

The Pontiff arises and, full of emotion

Which thrilled ev'ry heart in the time-honored fane,

Proclaims that our Lady was vested with beauty

Which never was sullied by spot or by stain.

At this declaration, a thousand full voices

The solemn Te Deum spontaneously sing,

While guns from St. Angelo greet it with thunders

And bells without number right merrily ring.

From Tiber's proud banks to the shores of Columbia,

From Erin's sweet vales to the points of Ind,

The dogma of Mary's Immaculate Conception

Is instantly borne on the wings of the wind.

By two hundred millions, the great definition

Is welcomed with outbursts of holiest glee,

And two hundred millions repeat with devotion

"From stain and from blemish, our Lady is free."