WHAT! he on whom our voices unanimously ran,
Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:
His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.
So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,
Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop; see him sit
No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”
But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow, and nods head;
Each winks at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead
Of swords and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?
Not he, of humble, holy heart! “Unworthy me,” he sighs;
“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince--it is indeed a rise!
So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”
And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set
Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met
His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!
Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:
“The humble, holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice,
He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds. “’Tis my
advice.”
So Pope he was; and when we flocked--its sacred slipper on--
To kiss his foot we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone--
That guarantee of lowlihead--eclipsed that star which shone!
Each eyed his fellow; one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!
I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish:
Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”
_Robert Browning._