Classic Poem

Good Father Philip, where the happy crowd
Is thick in heaven, art thou busy yet?
Is thy smile still not easy to forget,
Enough to break it, if there were a cloud?

Art thou in heaven no whit less endowed
With that keen glance there was no need to whet,
Piercing the gloss of life, the surface fret,
Seeing within the sovereign grace allowed?

Smile on, benign Saint Philip, as of old;
We, who are mostly sordid, harsh and cold,
Could we but answer faintly to thy care
For us, then would thy intercession bear
An overwhelming measure of relief
To Rome in chains, to London filled with grief.