ONE day, it matters not to know How many hundred years ago, A Spaniard stopt at a posada door: The landlord came to welcome him, and chat Of this and that, For he had seen the traveller there before. Does holy Romuald dwell Still in his cell? The traveller ask'd, or is the old man dead? No, he has left his loving flock, and we So good a Christian never more shall see, The landlord answer'd, and he shook his head. Ah, sir! we knew his worth. If ever there did live a saint on earth! Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirt For thirty days, all seasons, day and night: Good man, he knew it was not right For dust and ashes to fall out with dirt, And then he only hung it out in the rain, And put it on again. There used to be rare work With him and the Devil there in yonder cell, For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. There they would sometimes fight All through a winter's night, From sunset until morn, He with a cross, the Devil with his horn; The Devil spitting fire with might and main, Enough to make St. Michael half afraid; He splashing holy water till he made His red hide hiss again, And the hot vapour fill'd the little cell. This was so common, that his face became All black and yellow with the brimstone flame, And then he smelt—Oh Lord! how he did smell! Then, sir! to see how he would mortify The flesh! If any one had dainty fare, Good man, he would come there, And look at all the delicate things, and cry, Oh, belly! belly! You would be gormandizing now, I know. But it shall not be so;— Home to your bread and water—home, I tell ye! But, quoth the traveller, wherefore did he leave A flock that knew his saintly worth so well? Why, said the landlord, sir, it so befell He heard unluckily of our intent To do him a great honour, and you know He was not covetous of fame below, And so by stealth one night away he went. What was this honour, then? the traveller cried. Why, sir, the host replied, We thought, perhaps, that he might one day leave us; And then should strangers have The good man's grave; A loss like that would naturally grieve us, For he'll be made a saint of, to be sure. Therefore we thought it prudent to secure His relics while we might, And so we meant to strangle him one night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DREAM SONG: 1 by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR PANDOSTO, THE TRIUMPH OF TIME: IN PRAISE OF HIS BEST-BELOVED FAWNIA by ROBERT GREENE TO A BIRCH TREE by KENNETH SLADE ALLING NO PLEDGES by FLORA J. ARNSTEIN IN AN OLD CEMETERY by LILLAH A. ASHLEY STANZAS SELECTED FROM THE PAINS OR MEMORY; A FRAGMENT by BERNARD BARTON STANZAS ON FINDING THE KEY OF AN OLD PIANO by E. JUSTINE BAYARD |