 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
The time to come, alas, a little time!
No more the ass can into man sublime;
Vain as Medea's smoky crucible
Old Pelia's limbs to nerve, the cudgel fell,
As the fond wishes of that sister train
Who stood around, the peasant's hopes were vain,
Broken and poor, in pale October's sun,
He looked already as his race were run,
And still he knew nor respite nor repose,
His weal to work, redoubled were his blows;
But when November came with cloudy blast,
One icy morn his master stood aghast,
For there lay Sancho 'neath his roofless shed,
Frozen, and stark, and famished, stiff and dead.
And he must mourn for ever, for the soul
Of sinful friar, past his mortal goal
In beastly form, by holy Church unshriven,
Outcast of earth, unchanged and unforgiven!
The friar in convent hidden safely bides,
And hapless Sancho's fate with subtle smile derides.
No more the ass can into man sublime;
Vain as Medea's smoky crucible
Old Pelia's limbs to nerve, the cudgel fell,
As the fond wishes of that sister train
Who stood around, the peasant's hopes were vain,
Broken and poor, in pale October's sun,
He looked already as his race were run,
And still he knew nor respite nor repose,
His weal to work, redoubled were his blows;
49
One icy morn his master stood aghast,
For there lay Sancho 'neath his roofless shed,
Frozen, and stark, and famished, stiff and dead.
And he must mourn for ever, for the soul
Of sinful friar, past his mortal goal
In beastly form, by holy Church unshriven,
Outcast of earth, unchanged and unforgiven!
The friar in convent hidden safely bides,
And hapless Sancho's fate with subtle smile derides.
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |