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 the Priest, then Bishop: see him sit
No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries ‘Unfit!’
But someone smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head:
Each winks at each:ʽʼI-faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead
Of sword 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 remainder 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, ʽʼTis 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 —
