Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his fire,
  Forth issued from the wood, and stood aghast
To see the ponderous body of the friar
  Standing where he had left his donkey last.
Trembling he stood, and dared not venture nigher,
  But stared, and gaped, and crossed himself full fast;
For, being credulous and of little wit,
He thought it was some demon from the pit.

While speechless and bewildered thus he gazed,
  And dropped his load of fagots on the ground,
Quoth Brother Timothy: "Be not amazed
  That where you left a donkey should be found
A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and crazed,
  Standing demure and with a halter bound;
But set me free, and hear the piteous story
Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore.

"I am a sinful man, although you see
  I wear the consecrated cowl and cape;
You never owned an ass, but you owned me,
  Changed and transformed from my own natural shape
All for the deadly sin of gluttony,
  From which I could not otherwise escape,
Than by this penance, dieting on grass,
And being worked and beaten as an ass.

"Think of the ignominy I endured;
  Think of the miserable life I led,
The toil and blows to which I was inured,
  My wretched lodging in a windy shed,
My scanty fare so grudgingly procured,
  The damp and musty straw that formed my bed!
But, having done this penance for my sins,
My life as man and monk again begins."

The simple Gilbert, hearing words like these,
  Was conscience-stricken, and fell down apace
Before the friar upon his bended knees,
  And with a suppliant voice implored his grace;
And the good monk, now very much at ease,
  Granted him pardon with a smiling face,
Nor could refuse to be that night his guest,
It being late, and he in need of rest.

Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives,
  With figures painted on its white-washed walls,
The cottage stood; and near the humming hives
  Made murmurs as of far-off waterfalls;
A place where those who love secluded lives
  Might live content, and, free from noise and brawls,
Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here
Measure by fruits the slow-revolving year.

And, coming to this cottage of content
  They found his children, and the buxom wench
His wife, Dame Cicely, and his father, bent
  With years and labor, seated on a bench,
Repeating over some obscure event
  In the old wars of Milanese and French;
All welcomed the Franciscan, with a sense
Of sacred awe and humble reverence.

When Gilbert told them what had come to pass,
  How beyond question, cavil, or surmise,
Good Brother Timothy had been their ass,
  You should have seen the wonder in their eyes;
You should have heard them cry, "Alas! alas!
  Have heard their lamentations and their sighs!
For all believed the story, and began
To see a saint in this afflicted man.

Forthwith there was prepared a grand repast,
  To satisfy the craving of the friar
After so rigid and prolonged a fast;
  The bustling housewife stirred the kitchen fire;
Then her two barnyard fowls, her best and last,
  Were put to death, at her express desire,
And served up with a salad in a bowl,
And flasks of country wine to crown the whole.

It would not be believed should I repeat
  How hungry Brother Timothy appeared;
It was a pleasure but to see him eat,
  His white teeth flashing through his russet beard,
His face aglow and flushed with wine and meat,
  His roguish eyes that rolled and laughed and leered!
Lord! how he drank the blood-red country wine
As if the village vintage were divine!

And all the while he talked without surcease,
  And told his merry tales with jovial glee
That never flagged, but rather did increase,
  And laughed aloud as if insane were he,
And wagged his red beard, matted like a fleece,
  And cast such glances at Dame Cicely
That Gilbert now grew angry with his guest,
And thus in words his rising wrath expressed.

"Good father," said he, "easily we see
  How needful in some persons, and how right,
Mortification of the flesh may be.
  The indulgence you have given it to-night,
After long penance, clearly proves to me
  Your strength against temptation is but slight,
And shows the dreadful peril you are in
Of a relapse into your deadly sin.

"To-morrow morning, with the rising sun,
  Go back unto your convent, nor refrain
From fasting and from scourging, for you run
  Great danger to become an ass again,
Since monkish flesh and asinine are one;
  Therefore be wise, nor longer here remain,
Unless you wish the scourge should be applied
By other hands, that will not spare your hide."

When this the monk had heard, his color fled
  And then returned, like lightning in the air,
Till he was all one blush from foot to head,
  And even the bald spot in his russet hair
Turned from its usual pallor to bright red!
  The old man was asleep upon his chair.
Then all retired, and sank into the deep
And helpless imbecility of sleep.

They slept until the dawn of day drew near,
  Till the cock should have crowed, but did not crow,
For they had slain the shining chanticleer
  And eaten him for supper, as you know.
The monk was up betimes and of good cheer,
  And, having breakfasted, made haste to go,
As if he heard the distant matin bell,
And had but little time to say farewell.

Fresh was the morning as the breath of kine;
  Odors of herbs commingled with the sweet
Balsamic exhalations of the pine;
  A haze was in the air presaging heat;
Uprose the sun above the Apennine,
  And all the misty valleys at its feet
Were full of the delirious song of birds,
Voices of men, and bells, and low of herds.

All this to Brother Timothy was naught;
  He did not care for scenery, nor here
His busy fancy found the thing it sought;
  But when he saw the convent walls appear,
And smoke from kitchen chimneys upward caught
  And whirled aloft into the atmosphere,
He quickened his slow footsteps, like a beast
That scents the stable a league off at least.

And as he entered though the convent gate
  He saw there in the court the ass, who stood
Twirling his ears about, and seemed to wait,
  Just as he found him waiting in the wood;
And told the Prior that, to alleviate
  The daily labors of the brotherhood,
The owner, being a man of means and thrift,
Bestowed him on the convent as a gift.

And thereupon the Prior for many days
  Revolved this serious matter in his mind,
And turned it over many different ways,
  Hoping that some safe issue he might find;
But stood in fear of what the world would say,
  If he accepted presents of this kind,
Employing beasts of burden for the packs,
That lazy monks should carry on their backs.

Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort,
  And stop the mouth of cavil, he decreed
That he would cut the tedious matter short,
  And sell the ass with all convenient speed,
Thus saving the expense of his support,
  And hoarding something for a time of need.
So he despatched him to the neighboring Fair,
And freed himself from cumber and from care.

It happened now by chance, as some might say,
  Others perhaps would call it destiny,
Gilbert was at the Fair; and heard a bray,
  And nearer came, and saw that it was he,
And whispered in his ear, "Ah, lackaday!
  Good father, the rebellious flesh, I see,
Has changed you back into an ass again,
And all my admonitions were in vain."

The ass, who felt this breathing in his ear,
  Did not turn round to look, but shook his head,
As if he were not pleased these words to hear,
  And contradicted all that had been said.
And this made Gilbert cry in voice more clear,
  "I know you well; your hair is russet-red;
Do not deny it; for you are the same
Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name."

The ass, though now the secret had come out,
  Was obstinate, and shook his head again;
Until a crowd was gathered round about
  To hear this dialogue between the twain;
And raised their voices in a noisy shout
  When Gilbert tried to make the matter plain,
And flouted him and mocked him all day long
With laughter and with jibes and scraps of song.