She was inspir’d to name him of his owner,
Whose he was wholly, and so call’d him Dominic. 
And I speak of him, as the labourer,
Whom Christ in his own garden chose to be
His help-mate.  Messenger he seem’d, and friend
Fast-knit to Christ; and the first love he show’d,
Was after the first counsel that Christ gave. 
Many a time his nurse, at entering found
That he had ris’n in silence, and was prostrate,
As who should say, “My errand was for this.” 
O happy father!  Felix rightly nam’d! 
O favour’d mother! rightly nam’d Joanna! 
If that do mean, as men interpret it. 
Not for the world’s sake, for which now they pore
Upon Ostiense and Taddeo’s page,
But for the real manna, soon he grew
Mighty in learning, and did set himself
To go about the vineyard, that soon turns
To wan and wither’d, if not tended well: 
And from the see (whose bounty to the just
And needy is gone by, not through its fault,
But his who fills it basely), he besought,
No dispensation for commuted wrong,
Nor the first vacant fortune, nor the tenth),
That to God’s paupers rightly appertain,
But, ’gainst an erring and degenerate world,
Licence to fight, in favour of that seed,
From which the twice twelve cions gird thee round. 
Then, with sage doctrine and good will to help,
Forth on his great apostleship he far’d,
Like torrent bursting from a lofty vein;
And, dashing ’gainst the stocks of heresy,
Smote fiercest, where resistance was most stout. 
Thence many rivulets have since been turn’d,
Over the garden Catholic to lead
Their living waters, and have fed its plants. 
     “If such one wheel of that two-yoked car,
Wherein the holy church defended her,
And rode triumphant through the civil broil. 
Thou canst not doubt its fellow’s excellence,
Which Thomas, ere my coming, hath declar’d
So courteously unto thee.  But the track,
Which its smooth fellies made, is now deserted: 
That mouldy mother is where late were lees. 
His family, that wont to trace his path,
Turn backward, and invert their steps; erelong
To rue the gathering in of their ill crop,
When the rejected tares in vain shall ask
Admittance to the barn.  I question not
But he, who search’d our volume, leaf by leaf,
Might still find page with this inscription on’t,
‘I am as I was wont.’  Yet such were not
From Acquasparta nor Casale, whence
Of those, who come to meddle with the text,
One stretches and another cramps its rule. 
Bonaventura’s life in me behold,
From Bagnororegio, one, who in discharge
Of my great offices still laid aside
All sinister aim.  Illuminato here,
And Agostino join me:  two they were,
Among the first of those barefooted meek ones,
Who sought God’s friendship in the cord:  with them
Hugues of Saint Victor, Pietro Mangiadore,
And he of Spain in his twelve volumes shining,