His mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net!
Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:
"The humble holy heart that holds of newborn pride no spice!
He 's just the saint to choose for Pope!" Each adds, "'T is 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—
That guarantee of lowlihead,—eclipsed that star which shone!
Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried, "Pish!
I 'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish.
Why, Father, is the net removed?" "Son, it hath caught the fish."