THE CURA

He is the Cura—Long the silent peaks
Have watched him breast his hardships on his knees,—
Risking the passes when the winters freeze,—
Taking the lonely routes the midnight seeks.—

As though by magic, 'neath his blessing hand
A plenteous harvest its responses speaks;
His very mule indulgenced graces leaks
That lift the parish to a heavenly land.

From his asperges to his clogs and hook
He turns in readiness to drain his brook
Of mountain gold to deck his altar rude;

His preaching through a breath of basil sounds,—
A nephew is his only turpitude—
His piety with cowlike airs abounds.