_ST. ROMUALD_
One day, it matters not to know
How many hundred years ago,
A Frenchman stopt at an inn door:
The Landlord came to welcome him and chat
Of this and that,
For he had seen the traveller there before.
'Doth 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 great 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 has been perilous 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 smoking cell.
This was so common that his face became
All black and yellow with the brimstone flame,
And then he smelt.... O dear, 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,
'O 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 might this honour be?' 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.'
_R. Southey_