Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity.
None knew from whence she came of old,
Nor whose the sculptor's name should be
Of great or small. But this they told:—
That once from out the blaze of square,
And bickering folk that bought and sold,
More moved no doubt of heat than prayer,
Came to the church an Umbrian,
Lord of much gold and champaign fair,
But, for all this, a hard, haught man.
To whom the priests, in humbleness,
At once to beg for alms began,
Praying him grant of his excess
Such as for poor men's bread might pay,
Or give their saint a gala-dress.
Thereat with scorn he answered—"Nay,
Most Reverend! Far too well ye know,
By guile and wile, the fox's way
"To swell the Church's overflow.
But ere from me the least carline
Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow;
"Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen
Shall ring her bells ... but not of craft.
By Bacchus! ye are none too lean
"For fasting folk!" With that he laughed,
And so, across the porphyry floor,
His hand upon his dagger-haft,
Strode, and of these was seen no more.
Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they
At those his words, since gear and store