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Hark! still the sinews snap and hiss
In the dread heat, and still he groans.
But, curse the apostate! now how faintly,
The game’s up.” Swift the fingers saintly
A handle grasp. The walls clap tight.
“A splash!” “He’s quenched!” “Praise Heaven!” “Good night!”
Not otherwise the wall of noses
And knees indignant scour the square,
Converging furibond to where,
Shorn of its eloquence and bare,
Nor longer resonant, reposes
The Calvinistic tub, for there
No Boanerges smites the air
With winged words, but like a hare
Skips nimbly o’er the wine-dark cobbles,
While slow behind the wine tub wobbles,
Swung by his young Bregallian giant,
Who stone by stone disputes defiant
Each inch of ground, and dares the van.
As swift, more swift, the holy man
Skims like a scopperel down the wind,
His broad bands fluttering far behind,
And black robes bellying unconfined.
Dodging and doubling left and right,
Excogitating rapid flight,
His twinkling feet, in swift retreat,
E’en thus had scarcely gained the street
Ere the gross mob the entrance blocked
And past the lamp-post surged and rocked.
Here Blasius, breathless, tripped and reeled,
A moment more his fate had sealed;
