I was born sickly, poor, and mean, A slave: no misery could screen The holders of the pearl of price From Caesar’s envy; therefore twice I fought with beasts, and three times saw My children suffer by his law; At last my own release was earned: I was some time in being burned, But at the close a Hand came through The fire above my head, and drew {10} My soul to Christ, whom now I see. Sergius, a brother, writes for me This testimony on the wall-- For me, I have forgot it all. Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister. 1. Gr-r-r--there go, my heart’s abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God’s blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose has prior claims-- Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames! 2. At the meal we sit together: ‘Salve tibi!’ I must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year: ‘Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt: What’s the Latin name for “parsley”?’ What’s the Greek name for Swine’s Snout? 3. Whew! We’ll have our platter burnished, Laid with care on our own shelf! With a fire-new spoon we’re furnished, And a goblet for ourself, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere ‘tis fit to touch our chaps-- Marked with L. for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!) 4. SAINT, forsooth! While brown Dolores Squats outside the Convent bank With Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horse-hairs, --Can’t I see his dead eye glow, Bright as ‘twere a Barbary corsair’s? (That is, if he’d let it show!) 5. When he finishes refection, Knife and fork he never lays Cross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesu’s praise. I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp-- In three sips the Arian frustrate; While he drains his at one gulp. -- St. 5. the Arian: a follower of Arius (died 336 A.D.), who denied that the Son was co-essential and co-eternal with the Father. 6. Oh, those melons? If he’s able We’re to have a feast! so nice! One goes to the Abbot’s table, All of us get each a slice. How go on your flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly! 7.