For something right down at its bottom they’re feeling;
Now they have got it, and like Monks of mettle
They dab a wet mass on the rim of the kettle.
Shapeless and dark is it!—but with a shout
The Monks of Jacopolo maul it about;
Bow to it—pray to it;—each one caresses it,
E’en the Abbot himself lays his hand on, and blesses it:
They roll it, and wrinkle,
Punch it, and sprinkle:
A silver bell’s tinkle