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An inch above the common mire;
Else had th’ apostle of Geneva’s
Shrill creed, by Sondrio’s pure believers
Been doomed to boil his own tin kettle,
And thus, with all his fire and mettle,
Had little time to fan the schism
’Twixt oil and water, font and chrism.
I’ve said ’twas no light task, at first,
A house to find or room to preach in;
For who would house a soul accurst
Or hire out rooms for such to teach in?
’Twould draw down lightnings in the attic
To isolate the lank schismatic;
And by Christ’s blood no apostate fellow
Should e’er lap must in Sondrian cellar:
But when house-blessing day came round,
If such as he should chance be found
On the first floor, what priest were willing
To asperge walls fouled by such a villain;
Or Holy Church not fail to impound,
Outraged, the rent to the last shilling?
(For things like this occur, you know,
In priest-rid towns like Sondrio.)
At last, a Judas soul, as dour
As his of Jewry, did consent—
Faithless to faith,—in evil hour,
To let a small apart-a-ment
In his own crumbling tenement
Unto the Calvinistic Vandal,
Indifferent to the public scandal.
(For twenty jingling piastres
A month he risked his lath and plaster’s
