| |
| WHEN to any saint I pray, | |
| It shall be to St. Peray. | |
| He alone, of all the brood, | |
| Ever did me any good: | |
| Many I have tried that are | 5 |
| Humbugs in the calendar. | |
| |
| On the Atlantic, faint and sick, | |
| Once I prayed St. Dominick: | |
| He was holy, sure, and wise;— | |
| Was ’t not he that did devise | 10 |
| Auto-da-fés and rosaries?— | |
| But for one in my condition | |
| This good saint was no physician. | |
| |
| Next, in pleasant Normandie, | |
| I made a prayer to St. Denis, | 15 |
| In the great cathedral, where | |
| All the ancient kings repose; | |
| But, how I was swindled there | |
| At the “Golden Fleece,” he knows! | |
| |
| In my wanderings, vague and various, | 20 |
| Reaching Naples, as I lay | |
| Watching Vesuvius from the bay, | |
| I besought St. Januarius. | |
| But I was a fool to try him; | |
| Naught I said could liquefy him; | 25 |
| And I swear he did me wrong, | |
| Keeping me shut up so long | |
| In that pest-house, with obscene | |
| Jews and Greeks and things unclean,— | |
| What need had I of quarantine? | 30 |
| |
| In Sicily at least a score, | |
| In Spain about as many more, | |
| And in Rome almost as many | |
| As the loves of Don Giovanni, | |
| Did I pray to—sans reply; | 35 |
| “Devil take the tribe!” said I. | |
| |
| Worn with travel, tired and lame, | |
| To Assisi’s walls I came: | |
| Sad and full of homesick fancies, | |
| I addressed me to St. Francis; | 40 |
| But the beggar never did | |
| Anything as he was bid, | |
| Never gave me aught but fleas,— | |
| Plenty had I at Assise. | |
| |
| But in Provence, near Vaucluse, | 45 |
| Hard by the Rhone, I found a saint | |
| Gifted with a wondrous juice, | |
| Potent for the worst complaint. | |
| ’T was at Avignon that first, | |
| In the witching time of thirst, | 50 |
| To my brain the knowledge came | |
| Of this blessed Catholic’s name; | |
| Forty miles of dust that day | |
| Made me welcome St. Peray. | |
| |
| Though till then I had not heard | 55 |
| Aught about him, ere a third | |
| Of a litre passed my lips, | |
| All saints else were in eclipse. | |
| For his gentle spirit glided | |
| With such magic into mine, | 60 |
| That methought such bliss as I did | |
| Poet never drew from wine. | |
| |
| Rest he gave me, and refection, | |
| Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, | |
| Softened images of sorrow, | 65 |
| Bright forebodings for the morrow, | |
| Charity for what is past,— | |
| Faith in something good at last. | |
| |
| Now, why should any almanack | |
| The name of this good creature lack? | 70 |
| Or wherefore should the breviary | |
| Omit a saint so sage and merry? | |
| The Pope himself should grant a day | |
| Especially to St. Peray. | |
| But, since no day hath been appointed, | 75 |
| On purpose, by the Lord’s anointed, | |
| Let us not wait, we ’ll do him right; | |
| Send round your bottles, Hal, and set your night. | |
| |
