Chapter 98

'T is I preach while the hour-glass runs and runs!God keep me patient! All I say just means—My wife proved, whether by her fault or mine,—That 's immaterial,—a true stumbling-blockI' the way of me her husband. I but pliedThe hatchet yourselves use to clear a path,Was politic, played the game you warrant wins,Plucked at law's robe a-rustle through the courts,Bowed down to kiss divinity's buckled shoeCushioned i' the church: efforts all wide the aim!Procedures to no purpose! Then flashed truth.The letter kills, the spirit keeps aliveIn law and gospel: there be nods and winksInstruct a wise man to assist himselfIn certain matters, nor seek aid at all."Ask money of me,"—quoth the clownish saw,—"And take my purse! But,—speaking with respect,—Need you a solace for the troubled nose?Let everybody wipe his own himself!"Sirs, tell me free and fair! Had things gone wellAt the wayside inn: had I surprised asleepThe runaways, as was so probable,And pinned them each to other partridge-wise,Through back and breast to breast and back, then badeBystanders witness if the spit, my sword,Were loaded with unlawful game for once—Would you have interposed to damp the glowApplauding me on every husband's cheek?Would you have checked the cry, "A judgment, see!A warning, note! Be henceforth chaste, ye wives,Nor stray beyond your proper precinct, priests!"If you had, then your house against itselfDivides, nor stands your kingdom any more.Oh why, why was it not ordained just so?Why fell not things out so nor otherwise?Ask that particular devil whose task it isTo trip the all-but-at perfection,—slurThe line o' the painter just where paint leaves offAnd life begins,—put ice into the odeO' the poet while he cries "Next stanza—fire!"Inscribe all human effort with one word,Artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!Being incomplete, my act escaped success.Easy to blame now! Every fool can swearTo hole in net that held and slipped the fish.But, treat my act with fair unjaundiced eye,What was there wanting to a masterpieceExcept the luck that lies beyond a man?My way with the woman, now proved grossly wrong,Just missed of being gravely grandly rightAnd making mouths laugh on the other side.Do, for the poor obstructed artist's sake,Go with him over that spoiled work once more!Take only its first flower, the ended actNow in the dusty pod, dry and defunct!I march to the Villa, and my men with me,That evening, and we reach the door and stand.I say ... no, it shoots through me lightning-likeWhile I pause, breathe, my hand upon the latch,"Let me forebode! Thus far, too much success:I want the natural failure—find it where?Which thread will have to break and leave a loopI' the meshy combination, my brain's loomWove this long while, and now next minute tests?Of three that are to catch, two should go free,One must: all three surprised,—impossible!Beside, I seek three and may chance on six,—This neighbor, t' other gossip,—the babe's birthBrings such to fireside, and folks give them wine,—'T is late: but when I break in presentlyOne will be found outlingering the restFor promise of a posset,—one whose shoutWould raise the dead down in the catacombs,Much more the city-watch that goes its round.When did I ever turn adroitly upTo sun some brick embedded in the soil,And with one blow crush all three scorpions there?Or Pietro or Violante shambles off—It cannot be but I surprise my wife—If only she is stopped and stamped on, good!That shall suffice: more is improbable.Now I may knock!" And this once for my sakeThe impossible was effected: I called king,Queen and knave in a sequence, and cards came,All three, three only! So, I had my way,Did my deed: so, unbrokenly lay bareEach tænia that had sucked me dry of juice,At last outside me, not an inch of ringLeft now to writhe about and root itselfI' the heart all powerless for revenge! HenceforthI might thrive: these were drawn and dead and damned.Oh, Cardinal, the deep long sigh you heaveWhen the load 's off you, ringing as it runsAll the way down the serpent-stair to hell!No doubt the fine delirium flustered me,Turned my brain with the influx of successAs if the sole need now were to wave wandAnd find doors fly wide,—wish and have my will,—The rest o' the scheme would care for itself: escape?Easy enough were that, and poor beside!It all but proved so.—ought to quite have proved,Since, half the chances had sufficed, set freeAny one, with his senses at command,From thrice the danger of my flight. But, drunk,Redundantly triumphant,—some reverseWas sure to follow! There 's no other wayAccounts for such prompt perfect failure thenAnd there on the instant. Any day o' the week,A ducat slid discreetly into palmO' the mute post-master, while you whisper him—How you the Count and certain four your knaves,Have just been mauling who was malapert,Suspect the kindred may prove troublesome,Therefore, want horses in a hurry,—thatAnd nothing more secures you any dayThe pick o' the stable! Yet I try the trick,Double the bribe, call myself Duke for Count,And say the dead man only was a Jew,And for my pains find I am dealing justWith the one scrupulous fellow in all Rome—Just this immaculate official stares,Sees I want hat on head and sword in sheath,Am splashed with other sort of wet than wine,Shrugs shoulder, puts my hand by, gold and all,Stands on the strictness of the rule o' the road!"Where 's the Permission?" Where 's the wretched ragWith the due seal and sign of Rome's Police,To be had for asking, half an hour ago?"Gone? Get another, or no horses hence!"He dares not stop me, we five glare too grim,But hinders,—hacks and hamstrings sure enough,Gives me some twenty miles of miry roadMore to march in the middle of that nightWhereof the rough beginning taxed the strengthO' the youngsters, much more mine, both soul and flesh,Who had to think as well as act: dead-beat,We gave in ere we reached the boundaryAnd safe spot out of this irrational Rome,—Where, on dismounting from our steeds next day,We had snapped our fingers at you, safe and sound,Tuscans once more in blessed Tuscany,Where laws make wise allowance, understandCivilized life and do its champions right!Witness the sentence of the Rota there,Arezzo uttered, the Granduke confirmed,One week before I acted on its hint,—Giving friend Guillichini, for his love,The galleys, and my wife your saint, Rome's saint,—Rome manufactures saints enough to know,—Seclusion at the Stinche for her life.All this, that all but was, might all have been,Yet was not! balked by just a scrupulous knaveWhose palm was horn through handling horses' hoofsAnd could not close upon my proffered gold!What say you to the spite of fortune? Well,The worst 's in store: thus hindered, haled this wayTo Rome again by hangdogs, whom find IHere, still to fight with, but my pale frail wife?—Riddled with wounds by one not like to wasteThe blows he dealt,—knowing anatomy,—(I think I told you) bound to pick and chooseThe vital parts! 'T was learning all in vain!She too must shimmer through the gloom o' the grave,Come and confront me—not at judgment-seatWhere I could twist her soul, as erst her flesh,And turn her truth into a lie,—but there,O' the death-bed, with God's hand between us both,Striking me dumb, and helping her to speak,Tell her own story her own way, and turnMy plausibility to nothingness!Four whole days did Pompilia keep alive,With the best surgery of Rome agapeAt the miracle,—this cut, the other slash,And yet the life refusing to dislodge,Four whole extravagant impossible days,Till she had time to finish and persuadeEvery man, every woman, every childIn Rome, of what she would: the selfsame sheWho, but a year ago, had wrung her hands,Reddened her eyes and beat her breasts, rehearsedThe whole game at Arezzo, nor availedThereby to, move one heart or raise one hand!When destiny intends you cards like these,What good of skill and preconcerted play?Had she been found dead, as I left her dead,I should have told a tale brooked no reply:You scarcely will suppose me found at faultWith that advantage! "What brings me to Rome?Necessity to claim and take my wife:Better, to claim and take my new-born babe,—Strong in paternity a fortnight old,When 't is at strongest: warily I work,Knowing the machinations of my foe;I have companionship and use the night:I seek my wife and child,—I find—no childBut wife, in the embraces of that priestWho caused her to elope from me. These two,Backed by the pander-pair who watch the while,Spring on me like so many tiger-cats,Glad of the chance to end the intruder. I—What should I do but stand on my defence,Strike right, strike left, strike thick and threefold, slay,Not all—because the coward priest escapes.Last, I escape, in fear of evil tongues,And having had my taste of Roman law."What 's disputable, refutable here?—Save by just this one ghost-thing half on earth,Half out of it,—as if she held God's handWhile she leant back and looked her last at me,Forgiving me (here monks begin to weep)Oh, from her very soul, commending mineTo heavenly mercies which are infinite,—While fixing fast my head beneath your knife!'T is fate, not fortune. All is of a piece!When was it chance informed me of my youths?My rustic four o' the family, soft swains,What sweet surprise had they in store for me,Those of my very household,—what did LawTwist with her rack-and-cord-contrivance lateFrom out their bones and marrow? What but this—Had no one of these several stumbling-blocksStopped me, they yet were cherishing a scheme,All of their honest country homespun wit,To quietly next day at crow of cockCut my own throat too, for their own behoof,Seeing I had forgot to clear accountsO' the instant, nowise slackened speed for that,—And somehow never might find memory,Once safe back in Arezzo, where things change,And a court-lord needs mind no country lout.Well, being the arch-offender, I die last,—May, ere my head falls, have my eyesight free,Nor miss them dangling high on either hand,Like scarecrows in a hemp-field, for their pains!And then my Trial,—'t is my Trial that bitesLike a corrosive, so the cards are packed,Dice loaded, and my life-stake tricked away!Look at my lawyers, lacked they grace of law,Latin or logic? Were not they fools to the height,Fools to the depth, fools to the level between,O' the foolishness set to decide the case?They feign, they flatter; nowise does it skill,Everything goes against me: deal each judgeHis dole of flattery and feigning,—why,He turns and tries and snuffs and savors it,As some old fly the sugar-grain, your gift;Then eyes your thumb and finger, brushes cleanThe absurd old head of him, and whisks away,Leaving your thumb and finger dirty. Faugh!And finally, after this long-drawn rangeOf affront and failure, failure and affront,—This path, 'twixt crosses leading to a skull,Paced by me barefoot, bloodied by my palmsFrom the entry to the end,—there 's light at length,A cranny of escape: appeal may beTo the old man, to the father, to the Pope,For a little life—from one whose life is spent,A little pity—from pity's source and seat,A little indulgence to rank, privilege,From one who is the thing personified,Rank, privilege, indulgence, grown beyondEarth's bearing, even, ask Jansenius else!Still the same answer, still no other tuneFrom the cicala perched at the tree-topThan crickets noisy round the root,—'t is "Die!"Bids Law—"Be damned!" adds Gospel,—nay,No word so frank,—'t is rather, "Save yourself!"The Pope subjoins—"Confess and be absolved!So shall my credit countervail your shame,And the world see I have not lost the knackOf trying all the spirits: yours, my son,Wants but a fiery washing to emergeIn clarity! Come, cleanse you, ease the acheOf these old hones, refresh our bowels, boy!"Do I mistake your mission from the Pope?Then, bear his Holiness the mind of me!I do get strength from being thrust to wall,Successively wrenched from pillar and from postBy this tenacious hate of fortune, hateOf all things in, under, and above earth.Warfare, begun this mean unmanly mode,Does best to end so,—gives earth spectacleOf a brave fighter who succumbs to oddsThat turn defeat to victory. Stab, I foldMy mantle round me! Rome approves my act:Applauds the blow which costs me life but keepsMy honor spotless: Rome would praise no moreHad I fallen, say, some fifteen years ago,Helping Vienna when our AretinesFlocked to Duke Charles and fought Turk Mustafa;Nor would you two be trembling o'er my corpseWith all this exquisite solicitude.Why is it that I make such suit to live?The popular sympathy that 's round me nowWould break like bubble that o'er-domes a fly—Solid enough while he lies quiet there,But let him want the air and ply the wing,Why, it breaks and bespatters him, what else?Cardinal, if the Pope had pardoned me,And I walked out of prison through the crowd,It would not be your arm I should dare press!Then, if I got safe to my place again,How sad and sapless were the years to come!I go my old ways and find things grown gray;You priests leer at me, old friends look askance;The mob 's in love, I 'll wager, to a man,With my poor young good beauteous murdered wife:For hearts require instruction how to beat,And eyes, on warrant of the story, waxWanton at portraiture in white and blackOf dead Pompilia gracing ballad-sheet,Which eyes, lived she unmurdered and unsung,Would never turn though she paced street as bareAs the mad penitent ladies do in France.My brothers quietly would edge me outOf use and management of things called mine;Do I command? "You stretched command before!"Show anger? "Anger little helped you once!"Advise? "How managed you affairs of old?"My very mother, all the while they gird,Turns eye up, gives confirmatory groan;For unsuccess, explain it how you will,Disqualifies you, makes you doubt yourself,—Much more, is found decisive by your friends.Beside, am I not fifty years of age?What new leap would a life take, checked like mineI' the spring at outset? Where 's my second chance?Ay, but the babe ... I had forgot my son,My heir! Now for a burst of gratitude!There 's some appropriate service to intone,Somegaudeamusand thanksgiving-psalm!Old, I renew my youth in him, and poorPossess a treasure,—is not that the phrase?Only I must wait patient twenty years—Nourishing all the while, as father ought,The excrescence with my daily blood of life.Does it respond to hope, such sacrifice,—Grows the wen plump while I myself grow lean?Why, here 's my son and heir in evidence,Who stronger, wiser, handsomer than IBy fifty years, relieves me of each load,—Tames my hot horse, carries my heavy gun,Courts my coy mistress,—has his apt adviceOn house-economy, expenditure,And what not? All which good gifts and great growth,Because of my decline, he brings to bearOn Guido, but half apprehensive howHe cumbers earth, crosses the brisk young Count,Who civilly would thrust him from the scene.Contrariwise, does the blood-offering fail?There 's an ineptitude, one blank the moreAdded to earth in semblance of my child?Then, this has been a costly piece of work,My life exchanged for his!—why he, not I,Enjoy the world, if no more grace accrue?Dwarf me, what giant have you made of him?I do not dread the disobedient son—I know how to suppress rebellion there,Being not quite the fool my father was.But grant the medium measure of a man,The usual compromise 'twixt fool and sage,—You know—the tolerably-obstinate,The not-so-much-perverse but you may train,The true son-servant that, when parent bids"Go work, son, in my vineyard!" makes reply"I go, Sir!"—Why, what profit in your sonBeyond the drudges you might subsidize,Have the same work from, at a paul the head?Look at those four young precious olive-plantsReared at Vittiano,—not on flesh and blood,These twenty years, but black bread and sour wine!I bade them put forth tender branch, hook, hold,And hurt three enemies I had in Rome:They did my best as unreluctantly,At promise of a dollar, as a sonAdjured by mumping memories of the past.No, nothing repays youth expended so—Youth, I say, who am young still: grant but leaveTo live my life out, to the last I 'd liveAnd die conceding age no right of youth!It is the will runs the renewing nerveThrough flaccid flesh that faints before the time.Therefore no sort of use for son have I—Sick, not of life's feast but of steps to climbTo the house where life prepares her feast,—of meansTo the end: for make the end attainableWithout the means,—my relish were like yours.A man may have an appetite enoughFor a whole dish of robins ready cooked,And yet lack courage to face sleet, pad snow,And snare sufficiently for supper.ThusThe time 's arrived when, ancient Roman-like,I am bound to fall on my own sword: why notSay—Tuscan-like, more ancient, better still?Will you hear truth can do no harm nor good?I think I never was at any timeA Christian, as you nickname all the world,Me among others: truce to nonsense now!Name me, a primitive religionist—As should the aboriginary beI boast myself, Etruscan, Aretine,One sprung—your frigid Virgil's fieriest word—From fauns and nymphs, trunks and the heart of oak,With—for a visible divinity—The portent of a Jove ÆgiochusDescried 'mid clouds, lightning and thunder, couchedOn topmost crag of your Capitoline:'T is in the Seventh Æneid,—what, the Eighth?Right,—thanks, Abate,—though the Christian 's dumb,The Latinist 's vivacious in you yet!I know my grandsire had our tapestryMarked with the motto, 'neath a certain shield,Whereto his grandson presently will give gulesTo vary azure. First we fight for faiths,But get to shake hands at the last of all:Mine 's your faith too,—in Jove Ægiochus!Nor do Greek gods, that serve as supplement,Jar with the simpler scheme, if understood.We want such intermediary raceTo make communication possible;The real thing were too lofty, we too low,Midway hang these: we feel their use so plainIn linking height to depth, that we doff hatAnd put no question nor pry narrowlyInto the nature hid behind the names.We grudge no rite the fancy may demand;But never, more than needs, invent, refine,Improve upon requirement, idly wiseBeyond the letter, teaching gods their trade,Which is to teach us: we 'll obey when taught.Why should we do our duty past the need?When the sky darkens, Jove is wroth,—say prayer!When the sun shines and Jove is glad,—sing psalm!But wherefore pass prescription and deviseBlood-offering for sweat-service, lend the rodA pungency through pickle of our own?Learned Abate,—no one teaches youWhat Venus means and who 's Apollo here!I spare you, Cardinal,—but, though you wince,You know me, I know you, and both know that!So, if Apollo bids us fast, we fast:But where does Venus order we stop senseWhen Master Pietro rhymes a pleasantry?Give alms prescribed on Friday,—but, hold handBecause your foe lies prostrate,—where 's the wordExplicit in the book debars revenge?The rationale of your scheme is just"Pay toll here, there pursue your pleasure free!"So do you turn to use the medium-powers,Mars and Minerva, Bacchus and the rest,And so are saved propitiating—whom?What all-good, all-wise, and all-potent JoveVexed by the very sins in man, himselfMade life's necessity when man he made?Irrational bunglers! So, the living truthRevealed to strike Pan dead, ducks low at last,Prays leave to hold its own and live good daysProvided it go masque grotesquely, calledChristian not Pagan. Oh, you purged the skyOf all gods save the One, the great and good,Clapped hands and triumphed! But the change came fast:The inexorable need in man for life(Life, you may mulct and minish to a grainOut of the lump, so that the grain but live)Laughed at your substituting death for life,—And bade you do your worst: which worst was doneIn just that age styled primitive and pureWhen Saint this, Saint that, dutifully starved,Froze, fought with beasts, was beaten and abusedAnd finally ridded of his flesh by fire:He kept life-long unspotted from the world!—Next age, how goes the game, what mortal givesHis life and emulates Saint that, Saint this?Men mutter, make excuse, or mutiny,In fine are minded all to leave the new,Stick to the old,—enjoy old liberty,No prejudice in enjoyment, if you please,To the new profession: sin o' the sly, henceforth!The law stands though the letter kills: what then?The spirit saves as unmistakably.Omniscience sees, Omnipotence could stop,Omnibenevolence pardons: it must be,Frown law its fiercest, there 's a wink somewhere!Such was the logic in this head of mine:I, like the rest, wrote "poison" on my bread,But broke and ate:—said "Those that use the swordShall perish by the same;" then stabbed my foe.I stand on solid earth, not empty air:Dislodge me, let your Pope's crook hale me hence!Not he, nor you! And I so pity both,I 'll make the true charge you want wit to make:"Count Guido, who reveal our mystery,And trace all issues to the love of life:We having life to love and guard, like you,Why did you put us upon self-defence?You well knew what prompt pass-word would appeaseThe sentry's ire when folk infringed his bounds,And yet kept mouth shut: do you wonder thenIf, in mere decency, he shot you dead?He can't have people play such pranks as yoursBeneath his nose at noonday: you disdainedTo give him an excuse before the worldBy crying 'I break rule to save our camp!'Under the old rule, such offence were death;And you had heard the Pontifex pronounce,'Since you slay foe and violate the form,Slaying turns murder, which were sacrificeHad you, while, say, lawsuiting foe to death,But raised an altar to the Unknown God,Or else the Genius of the Vatican.'Why then this pother?—all because the Pope,Doing his duty, cried 'A foreigner,You scandalize the natives: here at RomeRomano vivitur more:wise men, here,Put the Church forward and efface themselves.The fit defence had been,—you stamped on wheat,Intending all the time to trample tares,—Were fain extirpate, then, the heretic,You now find, in your haste was slain a fool:Nor Pietro, nor Violante, nor your wifeMeant to breed up your babe a Molinist!Whence you are duly contrite. Not one wordOf all this wisdom did you urge: which slipDeath must atone for.'"So, let death atone!So ends mistake, so end mistakers!—endPerhaps to recommence,—how should I know?Only, be sure, no punishment, no painChildish, preposterous, impossible,But some such fate as Ovid could foresee,—Byblis in fluvium, let the weak soul endIn water,sed Lycaon in lupum, butThe strong become a wolf forevermore!Change that Pompilia to a puny streamFit to reflect the daisies on its bank!Let me turn wolf, be whole, and sate, for once,—Wallow in what is now a wolfishnessCoerced too much by the humanityThat 's half of me as well! Grow out of man,Glut the wolf-nature,—what remains but growInto the man again, be man indeedAnd all man? Do I ring the changes right?Deformed, transformed, reformed, informed, conformed!The honest instinct, pent and crossed through life,Let surge by death into a visible flowOf rapture: as the strangled thread of flamePainfully winds, annoying and annoyed,Malignant and maligned, through stone and ore,Till earth exclude the stranger: vented once,It finds full play, is recognized atopSome mountain as no such abnormal birth,Fire for the mount, not streamlet for the vale!Ay, of the water was that wife of mine—Be it for good, be it for ill, no runO' the red thread through that insignificance!Again, how she is at me with those eyes!Away with the empty stare! Be holy still,And stupid ever! Occupy your patchOf private snow that 's somewhere in what worldMay now be growing icy round your head,And aguish at your footprint,—freeze not me,Dare follow not another step I take,Not with so much as those detested eyes,No, though they follow but to pray me pauseOn the incline, earth's edge that 's next to hell!None of your abnegation of revenge!Fly at me frank, tug while I tear again!There 's God, go tell him, testify your worst!Not she! There was no touch in her of hate:And it would prove her hell, if I reached mine!To know I suffered, would still sadden her,Do what the angels might to make amends!Therefore there 's either no such place as hell,Or thence shall I be thrust forth, for her sake,And thereby undergo three hells, not one—I who, with outlet for escape to heaven,Would tarry if such flight allowed my foeTo raise his head, relieved of that firm footHad pinned him to the fiery pavement else!So am I made, "who did not make myself:"(How dared she rob my own lip of the word?)Beware me in what other world may be!—Pompilia, who have brought me to this pass!All I know here, will I say there, and goBeyond the saying with the deed. Some useThere cannot but be for a mood like mine,Implacable, persistent in revenge.She maundered, "All is over and at end:I go my own road, go you where God will!Forgive you? I forget you!" There 's the saintThat takes your taste, you other kind of men!How you had loved her! Guido wanted skillTo value such a woman at her worth!Properly the instructed criticise,"What 's here, you simpleton have tossed to takeIts chance i' the gutter? This a daub, indeed?Why, 't is a Rafael that you kicked to rags!"Perhaps so: some prefer the pure design:Give me my gorge of color, glut of goldIn a glory round the Virgin made for me!Titian 's the man, not Monk AngelicoWho traces you some timid chalky ghostThat turns the church into a charnel: ay,Just such a pencil might depict my wife!She,—since she, also, would not change herself,—Why could not she come in some heart-shaped cloud,Rainbowed about with riches, royaltyRimming her round, as round the tintless lawnGuardingly runs the selvage cloth of gold?I would have left the faint fine gauze untouched,Needle-worked over with its lily and rose,Let her bleach unmolested in the midst,Chill that selected solitary spotOf quietude she pleased to think was life.Purity, pallor grace the lawn no doubtWhen there 's the costly bordure to unthreadAnd make again an ingot: but what 's graceWhen you want meat and drink and clothes and fire?A tale comes to my mind that 's apposite—Possibly true, probably false, a truthSuch as all truths we live by, Cardinal!'T is said, a certain ancestor of mineFollowed—whoever was the potentate,To Paynimrie, and in some battle, brokeThrough more than due allowance of the foe,And, risking much his own life, saved the lord's.Battered and bruised, the Emperor scrambles up,Rubs his eyes and looks round and sees my sire,Picks a furze-sprig from out his hauberk-joint,(Token how near the ground went majesty,)And says, "Take this, and if thou get safe home,Plant the same in thy garden-ground to grow:Run thence an hour in a straight line, and stop:Describe a circle round (for central point)The furze aforesaid, reaching every wayThe length of that hour's run: I give it thee,—The central point, to build a castle there,The space circumjacent, for fit demesne,The whole to be thy children's heritage,—Whom, for the sake, bid thou wear furze on cap!"Those are my arms: we turned the furze a treeTo show more, and the greyhound tied thereto,Straining to start, means swift and greedy both;He stands upon a triple mount of gold—By Jove, then, he 's escaping from true goldAnd trying to arrive at empty air!Aha! the fancy never crossed my mind!My father used to tell me, and subjoin,"As for the castle, that took wings and flew:The broad lands,—why, to traverse them to-dayScarce tasks my gouty feet, and in my primeI doubt not I could stand and spit so far:But for the furze, boy, fear no lack of that,So long as fortune leaves one field to grub!Wherefore, hurrah for furze and loyalty!"What may I mean, where may the lesson lurk?"Do not bestow on man, by way of gift,Furze without land for framework,—vaunt no graceOf purity, no furze-sprig of a wife,To me, i' the thick of battle for my bread,Without some better dowry,—gold will do!"No better gift than sordid muck? Yes, Sirs!Many more gifts much better. Give them me!O those Olimpias bold, those Biancas brave,That brought a husband power worth Ormuz' wealth!Cried, "Thou being mine, why, what but thine am I?Be thou to me law, right, wrong, heaven and hell!Let us blend souls, blent, thou in me, to bidTwo bodies work one pleasure! What are theseCalled king, priest, father, mother, stranger, friend?They fret thee or they frustrate? Give the word—Be certain they shall frustrate nothing more!And who is this young florid foolishnessThat holds thy fortune in his pygmy clutch,—Being a prince and potency, forsooth!—He hesitates to let the trifle go?Let me but seal up eye, sing ear to sleepSounder than Samson,—pounce thou on the prizeShall slip from off my breast, and down couch-side,And on to floor, and far as my lord's feet—Where he stands in the shadow with the knife,Waiting to see what Delilah dares do!Is the youth fair? What is a man to meWho am thy call-bird? Twist his neck—my dupe's,—Then take the breast shall turn a breast indeed!"Such women are there; and they marry whom?Why, when a man has gone and hanged himselfBecause of what he calls a wicked wife,—See, if the very turpitude bemoanedProve not mere excellence the fool ignores!His monster is perfection,—Circe, sentStraight from the sun, with wand the idiot blamesAs not an honest distaff to spin wool!O thou Lucrezia, is it long to waitYonder where all the gloom is in a glowWith thy suspected presence?—virgin yet,Virtuous again, in face of what's to teach—Sin unimagined, unimaginable,—I come to claim my bride,—thy Borgia's selfNot half the burning bridegroom I shall be!Cardinal, take away your crucifix!Abate, leave my lips alone,—they bite!Vainly you try to change what should not change,And shall not. I have bared, you bathe my heart—It grows the stonier for your saving dew!You steep the substance, you would lubricate,In waters that but touch to petrify!You too are petrifactions of a kind:Move not a muscle that shows mercy; raveAnother twelve hours, every word were waste!I thought you would not slay impenitence,But teased, from men you slew, contrition first,—I thought you had a conscience. Cardinal,You know I am wronged!—wronged, say, and wronged, maintain.Was this strict inquisition made for bloodWhen first you showed us scarlet on your back,Called to the College? Your straightforward wayTo your legitimate end,—I think it passedOver a scantling of heads brained, hearts broke,Lives trodden into dust!—how otherwise?Such was the way o' the world, and so you walked.Does memory haunt your pillow? Not a whit.God wills you never pace your garden-path,One appetizing hour ere dinner-time,But your intrusion there treads out of lifeA universe of happy innocent things:Feel you remorse about that damsel-flyWhich buzzed so near your mouth and flapped your face?You blotted it from being at a blow:It was a fly, you were a man, and more,Lord of created things, so took your course.Manliness, mind,—these are things fit to save,Fit to brush fly from: why, because I takeMy course, must needs the Pope kill me?—kill you!You! for this instrument, he throws away,Is strong to serve a master, and were yoursTo have and hold and get much good from out!The Pope who dooms me needs must die next year;I 'll tell you how the chances are supposedFor his successor: first the Chamberlain,Old San Cesario,—Colloredo, next,—Then, one, two, three, four, I refuse to name;After these, comes Altieri; then come you—Seventh on the list yon come, unless ... ha, ha,How can a dead hand give a friend a lift?Are you the person to despise the helpO' the head shall drop in pannier presently?So a child seesaws on or kicks awayThe fulcrum-stone that 's all the sage requiresTo fit his lever to and move the world.Cardinal, I adjure you in God's name,Save my life, fall at the Pope's feet, set forthThings your own fashion, not in words like theseMade for a sense like yours who apprehend!Translate into the Court-conventional"Count Guido must not die, is innocent!Fair, be assured! But what an he were foul,Blood-drenched and murder-crusted head to foot?Spare one whose death insults the Emperor,Nay, outrages the Louis you so love!He has friends who will avenge him; enemiesWho will hate God now with impunity,Missing the old coercive: would you sendA soul straight to perdition, dying frankAn atheist?" Go and say this, for God's sake!—Why, you don't think I hope you 'll say one word?Neither shall I persuade you from your standNor you persuade me from my station: takeYour crucifix away, I tell you twice!

'T is I preach while the hour-glass runs and runs!

God keep me patient! All I say just means—

My wife proved, whether by her fault or mine,—

That 's immaterial,—a true stumbling-block

I' the way of me her husband. I but plied

The hatchet yourselves use to clear a path,

Was politic, played the game you warrant wins,

Plucked at law's robe a-rustle through the courts,

Bowed down to kiss divinity's buckled shoe

Cushioned i' the church: efforts all wide the aim!

Procedures to no purpose! Then flashed truth.

The letter kills, the spirit keeps alive

In law and gospel: there be nods and winks

Instruct a wise man to assist himself

In certain matters, nor seek aid at all.

"Ask money of me,"—quoth the clownish saw,—

"And take my purse! But,—speaking with respect,—

Need you a solace for the troubled nose?

Let everybody wipe his own himself!"

Sirs, tell me free and fair! Had things gone well

At the wayside inn: had I surprised asleep

The runaways, as was so probable,

And pinned them each to other partridge-wise,

Through back and breast to breast and back, then bade

Bystanders witness if the spit, my sword,

Were loaded with unlawful game for once—

Would you have interposed to damp the glow

Applauding me on every husband's cheek?

Would you have checked the cry, "A judgment, see!

A warning, note! Be henceforth chaste, ye wives,

Nor stray beyond your proper precinct, priests!"

If you had, then your house against itself

Divides, nor stands your kingdom any more.

Oh why, why was it not ordained just so?

Why fell not things out so nor otherwise?

Ask that particular devil whose task it is

To trip the all-but-at perfection,—slur

The line o' the painter just where paint leaves off

And life begins,—put ice into the ode

O' the poet while he cries "Next stanza—fire!"

Inscribe all human effort with one word,

Artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

Being incomplete, my act escaped success.

Easy to blame now! Every fool can swear

To hole in net that held and slipped the fish.

But, treat my act with fair unjaundiced eye,

What was there wanting to a masterpiece

Except the luck that lies beyond a man?

My way with the woman, now proved grossly wrong,

Just missed of being gravely grandly right

And making mouths laugh on the other side.

Do, for the poor obstructed artist's sake,

Go with him over that spoiled work once more!

Take only its first flower, the ended act

Now in the dusty pod, dry and defunct!

I march to the Villa, and my men with me,

That evening, and we reach the door and stand.

I say ... no, it shoots through me lightning-like

While I pause, breathe, my hand upon the latch,

"Let me forebode! Thus far, too much success:

I want the natural failure—find it where?

Which thread will have to break and leave a loop

I' the meshy combination, my brain's loom

Wove this long while, and now next minute tests?

Of three that are to catch, two should go free,

One must: all three surprised,—impossible!

Beside, I seek three and may chance on six,—

This neighbor, t' other gossip,—the babe's birth

Brings such to fireside, and folks give them wine,—

'T is late: but when I break in presently

One will be found outlingering the rest

For promise of a posset,—one whose shout

Would raise the dead down in the catacombs,

Much more the city-watch that goes its round.

When did I ever turn adroitly up

To sun some brick embedded in the soil,

And with one blow crush all three scorpions there?

Or Pietro or Violante shambles off—

It cannot be but I surprise my wife—

If only she is stopped and stamped on, good!

That shall suffice: more is improbable.

Now I may knock!" And this once for my sake

The impossible was effected: I called king,

Queen and knave in a sequence, and cards came,

All three, three only! So, I had my way,

Did my deed: so, unbrokenly lay bare

Each tænia that had sucked me dry of juice,

At last outside me, not an inch of ring

Left now to writhe about and root itself

I' the heart all powerless for revenge! Henceforth

I might thrive: these were drawn and dead and damned.

Oh, Cardinal, the deep long sigh you heave

When the load 's off you, ringing as it runs

All the way down the serpent-stair to hell!

No doubt the fine delirium flustered me,

Turned my brain with the influx of success

As if the sole need now were to wave wand

And find doors fly wide,—wish and have my will,—

The rest o' the scheme would care for itself: escape?

Easy enough were that, and poor beside!

It all but proved so.—ought to quite have proved,

Since, half the chances had sufficed, set free

Any one, with his senses at command,

From thrice the danger of my flight. But, drunk,

Redundantly triumphant,—some reverse

Was sure to follow! There 's no other way

Accounts for such prompt perfect failure then

And there on the instant. Any day o' the week,

A ducat slid discreetly into palm

O' the mute post-master, while you whisper him—

How you the Count and certain four your knaves,

Have just been mauling who was malapert,

Suspect the kindred may prove troublesome,

Therefore, want horses in a hurry,—that

And nothing more secures you any day

The pick o' the stable! Yet I try the trick,

Double the bribe, call myself Duke for Count,

And say the dead man only was a Jew,

And for my pains find I am dealing just

With the one scrupulous fellow in all Rome—

Just this immaculate official stares,

Sees I want hat on head and sword in sheath,

Am splashed with other sort of wet than wine,

Shrugs shoulder, puts my hand by, gold and all,

Stands on the strictness of the rule o' the road!

"Where 's the Permission?" Where 's the wretched rag

With the due seal and sign of Rome's Police,

To be had for asking, half an hour ago?

"Gone? Get another, or no horses hence!"

He dares not stop me, we five glare too grim,

But hinders,—hacks and hamstrings sure enough,

Gives me some twenty miles of miry road

More to march in the middle of that night

Whereof the rough beginning taxed the strength

O' the youngsters, much more mine, both soul and flesh,

Who had to think as well as act: dead-beat,

We gave in ere we reached the boundary

And safe spot out of this irrational Rome,—

Where, on dismounting from our steeds next day,

We had snapped our fingers at you, safe and sound,

Tuscans once more in blessed Tuscany,

Where laws make wise allowance, understand

Civilized life and do its champions right!

Witness the sentence of the Rota there,

Arezzo uttered, the Granduke confirmed,

One week before I acted on its hint,—

Giving friend Guillichini, for his love,

The galleys, and my wife your saint, Rome's saint,—

Rome manufactures saints enough to know,—

Seclusion at the Stinche for her life.

All this, that all but was, might all have been,

Yet was not! balked by just a scrupulous knave

Whose palm was horn through handling horses' hoofs

And could not close upon my proffered gold!

What say you to the spite of fortune? Well,

The worst 's in store: thus hindered, haled this way

To Rome again by hangdogs, whom find I

Here, still to fight with, but my pale frail wife?

—Riddled with wounds by one not like to waste

The blows he dealt,—knowing anatomy,—

(I think I told you) bound to pick and choose

The vital parts! 'T was learning all in vain!

She too must shimmer through the gloom o' the grave,

Come and confront me—not at judgment-seat

Where I could twist her soul, as erst her flesh,

And turn her truth into a lie,—but there,

O' the death-bed, with God's hand between us both,

Striking me dumb, and helping her to speak,

Tell her own story her own way, and turn

My plausibility to nothingness!

Four whole days did Pompilia keep alive,

With the best surgery of Rome agape

At the miracle,—this cut, the other slash,

And yet the life refusing to dislodge,

Four whole extravagant impossible days,

Till she had time to finish and persuade

Every man, every woman, every child

In Rome, of what she would: the selfsame she

Who, but a year ago, had wrung her hands,

Reddened her eyes and beat her breasts, rehearsed

The whole game at Arezzo, nor availed

Thereby to, move one heart or raise one hand!

When destiny intends you cards like these,

What good of skill and preconcerted play?

Had she been found dead, as I left her dead,

I should have told a tale brooked no reply:

You scarcely will suppose me found at fault

With that advantage! "What brings me to Rome?

Necessity to claim and take my wife:

Better, to claim and take my new-born babe,—

Strong in paternity a fortnight old,

When 't is at strongest: warily I work,

Knowing the machinations of my foe;

I have companionship and use the night:

I seek my wife and child,—I find—no child

But wife, in the embraces of that priest

Who caused her to elope from me. These two,

Backed by the pander-pair who watch the while,

Spring on me like so many tiger-cats,

Glad of the chance to end the intruder. I—

What should I do but stand on my defence,

Strike right, strike left, strike thick and threefold, slay,

Not all—because the coward priest escapes.

Last, I escape, in fear of evil tongues,

And having had my taste of Roman law."

What 's disputable, refutable here?—

Save by just this one ghost-thing half on earth,

Half out of it,—as if she held God's hand

While she leant back and looked her last at me,

Forgiving me (here monks begin to weep)

Oh, from her very soul, commending mine

To heavenly mercies which are infinite,—

While fixing fast my head beneath your knife!

'T is fate, not fortune. All is of a piece!

When was it chance informed me of my youths?

My rustic four o' the family, soft swains,

What sweet surprise had they in store for me,

Those of my very household,—what did Law

Twist with her rack-and-cord-contrivance late

From out their bones and marrow? What but this—

Had no one of these several stumbling-blocks

Stopped me, they yet were cherishing a scheme,

All of their honest country homespun wit,

To quietly next day at crow of cock

Cut my own throat too, for their own behoof,

Seeing I had forgot to clear accounts

O' the instant, nowise slackened speed for that,—

And somehow never might find memory,

Once safe back in Arezzo, where things change,

And a court-lord needs mind no country lout.

Well, being the arch-offender, I die last,—

May, ere my head falls, have my eyesight free,

Nor miss them dangling high on either hand,

Like scarecrows in a hemp-field, for their pains!

And then my Trial,—'t is my Trial that bitesLike a corrosive, so the cards are packed,Dice loaded, and my life-stake tricked away!Look at my lawyers, lacked they grace of law,Latin or logic? Were not they fools to the height,Fools to the depth, fools to the level between,O' the foolishness set to decide the case?They feign, they flatter; nowise does it skill,Everything goes against me: deal each judgeHis dole of flattery and feigning,—why,He turns and tries and snuffs and savors it,As some old fly the sugar-grain, your gift;Then eyes your thumb and finger, brushes cleanThe absurd old head of him, and whisks away,Leaving your thumb and finger dirty. Faugh!

And then my Trial,—'t is my Trial that bites

Like a corrosive, so the cards are packed,

Dice loaded, and my life-stake tricked away!

Look at my lawyers, lacked they grace of law,

Latin or logic? Were not they fools to the height,

Fools to the depth, fools to the level between,

O' the foolishness set to decide the case?

They feign, they flatter; nowise does it skill,

Everything goes against me: deal each judge

His dole of flattery and feigning,—why,

He turns and tries and snuffs and savors it,

As some old fly the sugar-grain, your gift;

Then eyes your thumb and finger, brushes clean

The absurd old head of him, and whisks away,

Leaving your thumb and finger dirty. Faugh!

And finally, after this long-drawn rangeOf affront and failure, failure and affront,—This path, 'twixt crosses leading to a skull,Paced by me barefoot, bloodied by my palmsFrom the entry to the end,—there 's light at length,A cranny of escape: appeal may beTo the old man, to the father, to the Pope,For a little life—from one whose life is spent,A little pity—from pity's source and seat,A little indulgence to rank, privilege,From one who is the thing personified,Rank, privilege, indulgence, grown beyondEarth's bearing, even, ask Jansenius else!Still the same answer, still no other tuneFrom the cicala perched at the tree-topThan crickets noisy round the root,—'t is "Die!"Bids Law—"Be damned!" adds Gospel,—nay,No word so frank,—'t is rather, "Save yourself!"The Pope subjoins—"Confess and be absolved!So shall my credit countervail your shame,And the world see I have not lost the knackOf trying all the spirits: yours, my son,Wants but a fiery washing to emergeIn clarity! Come, cleanse you, ease the acheOf these old hones, refresh our bowels, boy!"Do I mistake your mission from the Pope?Then, bear his Holiness the mind of me!I do get strength from being thrust to wall,Successively wrenched from pillar and from postBy this tenacious hate of fortune, hateOf all things in, under, and above earth.Warfare, begun this mean unmanly mode,Does best to end so,—gives earth spectacleOf a brave fighter who succumbs to oddsThat turn defeat to victory. Stab, I foldMy mantle round me! Rome approves my act:Applauds the blow which costs me life but keepsMy honor spotless: Rome would praise no moreHad I fallen, say, some fifteen years ago,Helping Vienna when our AretinesFlocked to Duke Charles and fought Turk Mustafa;Nor would you two be trembling o'er my corpseWith all this exquisite solicitude.Why is it that I make such suit to live?The popular sympathy that 's round me nowWould break like bubble that o'er-domes a fly—Solid enough while he lies quiet there,But let him want the air and ply the wing,Why, it breaks and bespatters him, what else?Cardinal, if the Pope had pardoned me,And I walked out of prison through the crowd,It would not be your arm I should dare press!Then, if I got safe to my place again,How sad and sapless were the years to come!I go my old ways and find things grown gray;You priests leer at me, old friends look askance;The mob 's in love, I 'll wager, to a man,With my poor young good beauteous murdered wife:For hearts require instruction how to beat,And eyes, on warrant of the story, waxWanton at portraiture in white and blackOf dead Pompilia gracing ballad-sheet,Which eyes, lived she unmurdered and unsung,Would never turn though she paced street as bareAs the mad penitent ladies do in France.My brothers quietly would edge me outOf use and management of things called mine;Do I command? "You stretched command before!"Show anger? "Anger little helped you once!"Advise? "How managed you affairs of old?"My very mother, all the while they gird,Turns eye up, gives confirmatory groan;For unsuccess, explain it how you will,Disqualifies you, makes you doubt yourself,—Much more, is found decisive by your friends.Beside, am I not fifty years of age?What new leap would a life take, checked like mineI' the spring at outset? Where 's my second chance?Ay, but the babe ... I had forgot my son,My heir! Now for a burst of gratitude!There 's some appropriate service to intone,Somegaudeamusand thanksgiving-psalm!Old, I renew my youth in him, and poorPossess a treasure,—is not that the phrase?Only I must wait patient twenty years—Nourishing all the while, as father ought,The excrescence with my daily blood of life.Does it respond to hope, such sacrifice,—Grows the wen plump while I myself grow lean?Why, here 's my son and heir in evidence,Who stronger, wiser, handsomer than IBy fifty years, relieves me of each load,—Tames my hot horse, carries my heavy gun,Courts my coy mistress,—has his apt adviceOn house-economy, expenditure,And what not? All which good gifts and great growth,Because of my decline, he brings to bearOn Guido, but half apprehensive howHe cumbers earth, crosses the brisk young Count,Who civilly would thrust him from the scene.Contrariwise, does the blood-offering fail?There 's an ineptitude, one blank the moreAdded to earth in semblance of my child?Then, this has been a costly piece of work,My life exchanged for his!—why he, not I,Enjoy the world, if no more grace accrue?Dwarf me, what giant have you made of him?I do not dread the disobedient son—I know how to suppress rebellion there,Being not quite the fool my father was.But grant the medium measure of a man,The usual compromise 'twixt fool and sage,—You know—the tolerably-obstinate,The not-so-much-perverse but you may train,The true son-servant that, when parent bids"Go work, son, in my vineyard!" makes reply"I go, Sir!"—Why, what profit in your sonBeyond the drudges you might subsidize,Have the same work from, at a paul the head?Look at those four young precious olive-plantsReared at Vittiano,—not on flesh and blood,These twenty years, but black bread and sour wine!I bade them put forth tender branch, hook, hold,And hurt three enemies I had in Rome:They did my best as unreluctantly,At promise of a dollar, as a sonAdjured by mumping memories of the past.No, nothing repays youth expended so—Youth, I say, who am young still: grant but leaveTo live my life out, to the last I 'd liveAnd die conceding age no right of youth!It is the will runs the renewing nerveThrough flaccid flesh that faints before the time.Therefore no sort of use for son have I—Sick, not of life's feast but of steps to climbTo the house where life prepares her feast,—of meansTo the end: for make the end attainableWithout the means,—my relish were like yours.A man may have an appetite enoughFor a whole dish of robins ready cooked,And yet lack courage to face sleet, pad snow,And snare sufficiently for supper.

And finally, after this long-drawn range

Of affront and failure, failure and affront,—

This path, 'twixt crosses leading to a skull,

Paced by me barefoot, bloodied by my palms

From the entry to the end,—there 's light at length,

A cranny of escape: appeal may be

To the old man, to the father, to the Pope,

For a little life—from one whose life is spent,

A little pity—from pity's source and seat,

A little indulgence to rank, privilege,

From one who is the thing personified,

Rank, privilege, indulgence, grown beyond

Earth's bearing, even, ask Jansenius else!

Still the same answer, still no other tune

From the cicala perched at the tree-top

Than crickets noisy round the root,—'t is "Die!"

Bids Law—"Be damned!" adds Gospel,—nay,

No word so frank,—'t is rather, "Save yourself!"

The Pope subjoins—"Confess and be absolved!

So shall my credit countervail your shame,

And the world see I have not lost the knack

Of trying all the spirits: yours, my son,

Wants but a fiery washing to emerge

In clarity! Come, cleanse you, ease the ache

Of these old hones, refresh our bowels, boy!"

Do I mistake your mission from the Pope?

Then, bear his Holiness the mind of me!

I do get strength from being thrust to wall,

Successively wrenched from pillar and from post

By this tenacious hate of fortune, hate

Of all things in, under, and above earth.

Warfare, begun this mean unmanly mode,

Does best to end so,—gives earth spectacle

Of a brave fighter who succumbs to odds

That turn defeat to victory. Stab, I fold

My mantle round me! Rome approves my act:

Applauds the blow which costs me life but keeps

My honor spotless: Rome would praise no more

Had I fallen, say, some fifteen years ago,

Helping Vienna when our Aretines

Flocked to Duke Charles and fought Turk Mustafa;

Nor would you two be trembling o'er my corpse

With all this exquisite solicitude.

Why is it that I make such suit to live?

The popular sympathy that 's round me now

Would break like bubble that o'er-domes a fly—

Solid enough while he lies quiet there,

But let him want the air and ply the wing,

Why, it breaks and bespatters him, what else?

Cardinal, if the Pope had pardoned me,

And I walked out of prison through the crowd,

It would not be your arm I should dare press!

Then, if I got safe to my place again,

How sad and sapless were the years to come!

I go my old ways and find things grown gray;

You priests leer at me, old friends look askance;

The mob 's in love, I 'll wager, to a man,

With my poor young good beauteous murdered wife:

For hearts require instruction how to beat,

And eyes, on warrant of the story, wax

Wanton at portraiture in white and black

Of dead Pompilia gracing ballad-sheet,

Which eyes, lived she unmurdered and unsung,

Would never turn though she paced street as bare

As the mad penitent ladies do in France.

My brothers quietly would edge me out

Of use and management of things called mine;

Do I command? "You stretched command before!"

Show anger? "Anger little helped you once!"

Advise? "How managed you affairs of old?"

My very mother, all the while they gird,

Turns eye up, gives confirmatory groan;

For unsuccess, explain it how you will,

Disqualifies you, makes you doubt yourself,

—Much more, is found decisive by your friends.

Beside, am I not fifty years of age?

What new leap would a life take, checked like mine

I' the spring at outset? Where 's my second chance?

Ay, but the babe ... I had forgot my son,

My heir! Now for a burst of gratitude!

There 's some appropriate service to intone,

Somegaudeamusand thanksgiving-psalm!

Old, I renew my youth in him, and poor

Possess a treasure,—is not that the phrase?

Only I must wait patient twenty years—

Nourishing all the while, as father ought,

The excrescence with my daily blood of life.

Does it respond to hope, such sacrifice,—

Grows the wen plump while I myself grow lean?

Why, here 's my son and heir in evidence,

Who stronger, wiser, handsomer than I

By fifty years, relieves me of each load,—

Tames my hot horse, carries my heavy gun,

Courts my coy mistress,—has his apt advice

On house-economy, expenditure,

And what not? All which good gifts and great growth,

Because of my decline, he brings to bear

On Guido, but half apprehensive how

He cumbers earth, crosses the brisk young Count,

Who civilly would thrust him from the scene.

Contrariwise, does the blood-offering fail?

There 's an ineptitude, one blank the more

Added to earth in semblance of my child?

Then, this has been a costly piece of work,

My life exchanged for his!—why he, not I,

Enjoy the world, if no more grace accrue?

Dwarf me, what giant have you made of him?

I do not dread the disobedient son—

I know how to suppress rebellion there,

Being not quite the fool my father was.

But grant the medium measure of a man,

The usual compromise 'twixt fool and sage,

—You know—the tolerably-obstinate,

The not-so-much-perverse but you may train,

The true son-servant that, when parent bids

"Go work, son, in my vineyard!" makes reply

"I go, Sir!"—Why, what profit in your son

Beyond the drudges you might subsidize,

Have the same work from, at a paul the head?

Look at those four young precious olive-plants

Reared at Vittiano,—not on flesh and blood,

These twenty years, but black bread and sour wine!

I bade them put forth tender branch, hook, hold,

And hurt three enemies I had in Rome:

They did my best as unreluctantly,

At promise of a dollar, as a son

Adjured by mumping memories of the past.

No, nothing repays youth expended so—

Youth, I say, who am young still: grant but leave

To live my life out, to the last I 'd live

And die conceding age no right of youth!

It is the will runs the renewing nerve

Through flaccid flesh that faints before the time.

Therefore no sort of use for son have I—

Sick, not of life's feast but of steps to climb

To the house where life prepares her feast,—of means

To the end: for make the end attainable

Without the means,—my relish were like yours.

A man may have an appetite enough

For a whole dish of robins ready cooked,

And yet lack courage to face sleet, pad snow,

And snare sufficiently for supper.

ThusThe time 's arrived when, ancient Roman-like,I am bound to fall on my own sword: why notSay—Tuscan-like, more ancient, better still?Will you hear truth can do no harm nor good?I think I never was at any timeA Christian, as you nickname all the world,Me among others: truce to nonsense now!Name me, a primitive religionist—As should the aboriginary beI boast myself, Etruscan, Aretine,One sprung—your frigid Virgil's fieriest word—From fauns and nymphs, trunks and the heart of oak,With—for a visible divinity—The portent of a Jove ÆgiochusDescried 'mid clouds, lightning and thunder, couchedOn topmost crag of your Capitoline:'T is in the Seventh Æneid,—what, the Eighth?Right,—thanks, Abate,—though the Christian 's dumb,The Latinist 's vivacious in you yet!I know my grandsire had our tapestryMarked with the motto, 'neath a certain shield,Whereto his grandson presently will give gulesTo vary azure. First we fight for faiths,But get to shake hands at the last of all:Mine 's your faith too,—in Jove Ægiochus!Nor do Greek gods, that serve as supplement,Jar with the simpler scheme, if understood.We want such intermediary raceTo make communication possible;The real thing were too lofty, we too low,Midway hang these: we feel their use so plainIn linking height to depth, that we doff hatAnd put no question nor pry narrowlyInto the nature hid behind the names.We grudge no rite the fancy may demand;But never, more than needs, invent, refine,Improve upon requirement, idly wiseBeyond the letter, teaching gods their trade,Which is to teach us: we 'll obey when taught.Why should we do our duty past the need?When the sky darkens, Jove is wroth,—say prayer!When the sun shines and Jove is glad,—sing psalm!But wherefore pass prescription and deviseBlood-offering for sweat-service, lend the rodA pungency through pickle of our own?Learned Abate,—no one teaches youWhat Venus means and who 's Apollo here!I spare you, Cardinal,—but, though you wince,You know me, I know you, and both know that!So, if Apollo bids us fast, we fast:But where does Venus order we stop senseWhen Master Pietro rhymes a pleasantry?Give alms prescribed on Friday,—but, hold handBecause your foe lies prostrate,—where 's the wordExplicit in the book debars revenge?The rationale of your scheme is just"Pay toll here, there pursue your pleasure free!"So do you turn to use the medium-powers,Mars and Minerva, Bacchus and the rest,And so are saved propitiating—whom?What all-good, all-wise, and all-potent JoveVexed by the very sins in man, himselfMade life's necessity when man he made?Irrational bunglers! So, the living truthRevealed to strike Pan dead, ducks low at last,Prays leave to hold its own and live good daysProvided it go masque grotesquely, calledChristian not Pagan. Oh, you purged the skyOf all gods save the One, the great and good,Clapped hands and triumphed! But the change came fast:The inexorable need in man for life(Life, you may mulct and minish to a grainOut of the lump, so that the grain but live)Laughed at your substituting death for life,—And bade you do your worst: which worst was doneIn just that age styled primitive and pureWhen Saint this, Saint that, dutifully starved,Froze, fought with beasts, was beaten and abusedAnd finally ridded of his flesh by fire:He kept life-long unspotted from the world!—Next age, how goes the game, what mortal givesHis life and emulates Saint that, Saint this?Men mutter, make excuse, or mutiny,In fine are minded all to leave the new,Stick to the old,—enjoy old liberty,No prejudice in enjoyment, if you please,To the new profession: sin o' the sly, henceforth!The law stands though the letter kills: what then?The spirit saves as unmistakably.Omniscience sees, Omnipotence could stop,Omnibenevolence pardons: it must be,Frown law its fiercest, there 's a wink somewhere!

Thus

The time 's arrived when, ancient Roman-like,

I am bound to fall on my own sword: why not

Say—Tuscan-like, more ancient, better still?

Will you hear truth can do no harm nor good?

I think I never was at any time

A Christian, as you nickname all the world,

Me among others: truce to nonsense now!

Name me, a primitive religionist—

As should the aboriginary be

I boast myself, Etruscan, Aretine,

One sprung—your frigid Virgil's fieriest word—

From fauns and nymphs, trunks and the heart of oak,

With—for a visible divinity—

The portent of a Jove Ægiochus

Descried 'mid clouds, lightning and thunder, couched

On topmost crag of your Capitoline:

'T is in the Seventh Æneid,—what, the Eighth?

Right,—thanks, Abate,—though the Christian 's dumb,

The Latinist 's vivacious in you yet!

I know my grandsire had our tapestry

Marked with the motto, 'neath a certain shield,

Whereto his grandson presently will give gules

To vary azure. First we fight for faiths,

But get to shake hands at the last of all:

Mine 's your faith too,—in Jove Ægiochus!

Nor do Greek gods, that serve as supplement,

Jar with the simpler scheme, if understood.

We want such intermediary race

To make communication possible;

The real thing were too lofty, we too low,

Midway hang these: we feel their use so plain

In linking height to depth, that we doff hat

And put no question nor pry narrowly

Into the nature hid behind the names.

We grudge no rite the fancy may demand;

But never, more than needs, invent, refine,

Improve upon requirement, idly wise

Beyond the letter, teaching gods their trade,

Which is to teach us: we 'll obey when taught.

Why should we do our duty past the need?

When the sky darkens, Jove is wroth,—say prayer!

When the sun shines and Jove is glad,—sing psalm!

But wherefore pass prescription and devise

Blood-offering for sweat-service, lend the rod

A pungency through pickle of our own?

Learned Abate,—no one teaches you

What Venus means and who 's Apollo here!

I spare you, Cardinal,—but, though you wince,

You know me, I know you, and both know that!

So, if Apollo bids us fast, we fast:

But where does Venus order we stop sense

When Master Pietro rhymes a pleasantry?

Give alms prescribed on Friday,—but, hold hand

Because your foe lies prostrate,—where 's the word

Explicit in the book debars revenge?

The rationale of your scheme is just

"Pay toll here, there pursue your pleasure free!"

So do you turn to use the medium-powers,

Mars and Minerva, Bacchus and the rest,

And so are saved propitiating—whom?

What all-good, all-wise, and all-potent Jove

Vexed by the very sins in man, himself

Made life's necessity when man he made?

Irrational bunglers! So, the living truth

Revealed to strike Pan dead, ducks low at last,

Prays leave to hold its own and live good days

Provided it go masque grotesquely, called

Christian not Pagan. Oh, you purged the sky

Of all gods save the One, the great and good,

Clapped hands and triumphed! But the change came fast:

The inexorable need in man for life

(Life, you may mulct and minish to a grain

Out of the lump, so that the grain but live)

Laughed at your substituting death for life,—

And bade you do your worst: which worst was done

In just that age styled primitive and pure

When Saint this, Saint that, dutifully starved,

Froze, fought with beasts, was beaten and abused

And finally ridded of his flesh by fire:

He kept life-long unspotted from the world!—

Next age, how goes the game, what mortal gives

His life and emulates Saint that, Saint this?

Men mutter, make excuse, or mutiny,

In fine are minded all to leave the new,

Stick to the old,—enjoy old liberty,

No prejudice in enjoyment, if you please,

To the new profession: sin o' the sly, henceforth!

The law stands though the letter kills: what then?

The spirit saves as unmistakably.

Omniscience sees, Omnipotence could stop,

Omnibenevolence pardons: it must be,

Frown law its fiercest, there 's a wink somewhere!

Such was the logic in this head of mine:I, like the rest, wrote "poison" on my bread,But broke and ate:—said "Those that use the swordShall perish by the same;" then stabbed my foe.I stand on solid earth, not empty air:Dislodge me, let your Pope's crook hale me hence!Not he, nor you! And I so pity both,I 'll make the true charge you want wit to make:"Count Guido, who reveal our mystery,And trace all issues to the love of life:We having life to love and guard, like you,Why did you put us upon self-defence?You well knew what prompt pass-word would appeaseThe sentry's ire when folk infringed his bounds,And yet kept mouth shut: do you wonder thenIf, in mere decency, he shot you dead?He can't have people play such pranks as yoursBeneath his nose at noonday: you disdainedTo give him an excuse before the worldBy crying 'I break rule to save our camp!'Under the old rule, such offence were death;And you had heard the Pontifex pronounce,'Since you slay foe and violate the form,Slaying turns murder, which were sacrificeHad you, while, say, lawsuiting foe to death,But raised an altar to the Unknown God,Or else the Genius of the Vatican.'Why then this pother?—all because the Pope,Doing his duty, cried 'A foreigner,You scandalize the natives: here at RomeRomano vivitur more:wise men, here,Put the Church forward and efface themselves.The fit defence had been,—you stamped on wheat,Intending all the time to trample tares,—Were fain extirpate, then, the heretic,You now find, in your haste was slain a fool:Nor Pietro, nor Violante, nor your wifeMeant to breed up your babe a Molinist!Whence you are duly contrite. Not one wordOf all this wisdom did you urge: which slipDeath must atone for.'"So, let death atone!So ends mistake, so end mistakers!—endPerhaps to recommence,—how should I know?Only, be sure, no punishment, no painChildish, preposterous, impossible,But some such fate as Ovid could foresee,—Byblis in fluvium, let the weak soul endIn water,sed Lycaon in lupum, butThe strong become a wolf forevermore!Change that Pompilia to a puny streamFit to reflect the daisies on its bank!Let me turn wolf, be whole, and sate, for once,—Wallow in what is now a wolfishnessCoerced too much by the humanityThat 's half of me as well! Grow out of man,Glut the wolf-nature,—what remains but growInto the man again, be man indeedAnd all man? Do I ring the changes right?Deformed, transformed, reformed, informed, conformed!The honest instinct, pent and crossed through life,Let surge by death into a visible flowOf rapture: as the strangled thread of flamePainfully winds, annoying and annoyed,Malignant and maligned, through stone and ore,Till earth exclude the stranger: vented once,It finds full play, is recognized atopSome mountain as no such abnormal birth,Fire for the mount, not streamlet for the vale!Ay, of the water was that wife of mine—Be it for good, be it for ill, no runO' the red thread through that insignificance!Again, how she is at me with those eyes!Away with the empty stare! Be holy still,And stupid ever! Occupy your patchOf private snow that 's somewhere in what worldMay now be growing icy round your head,And aguish at your footprint,—freeze not me,Dare follow not another step I take,Not with so much as those detested eyes,No, though they follow but to pray me pauseOn the incline, earth's edge that 's next to hell!None of your abnegation of revenge!Fly at me frank, tug while I tear again!There 's God, go tell him, testify your worst!Not she! There was no touch in her of hate:And it would prove her hell, if I reached mine!To know I suffered, would still sadden her,Do what the angels might to make amends!Therefore there 's either no such place as hell,Or thence shall I be thrust forth, for her sake,And thereby undergo three hells, not one—I who, with outlet for escape to heaven,Would tarry if such flight allowed my foeTo raise his head, relieved of that firm footHad pinned him to the fiery pavement else!So am I made, "who did not make myself:"(How dared she rob my own lip of the word?)Beware me in what other world may be!—Pompilia, who have brought me to this pass!All I know here, will I say there, and goBeyond the saying with the deed. Some useThere cannot but be for a mood like mine,Implacable, persistent in revenge.She maundered, "All is over and at end:I go my own road, go you where God will!Forgive you? I forget you!" There 's the saintThat takes your taste, you other kind of men!How you had loved her! Guido wanted skillTo value such a woman at her worth!Properly the instructed criticise,"What 's here, you simpleton have tossed to takeIts chance i' the gutter? This a daub, indeed?Why, 't is a Rafael that you kicked to rags!"Perhaps so: some prefer the pure design:Give me my gorge of color, glut of goldIn a glory round the Virgin made for me!Titian 's the man, not Monk AngelicoWho traces you some timid chalky ghostThat turns the church into a charnel: ay,Just such a pencil might depict my wife!She,—since she, also, would not change herself,—Why could not she come in some heart-shaped cloud,Rainbowed about with riches, royaltyRimming her round, as round the tintless lawnGuardingly runs the selvage cloth of gold?I would have left the faint fine gauze untouched,Needle-worked over with its lily and rose,Let her bleach unmolested in the midst,Chill that selected solitary spotOf quietude she pleased to think was life.Purity, pallor grace the lawn no doubtWhen there 's the costly bordure to unthreadAnd make again an ingot: but what 's graceWhen you want meat and drink and clothes and fire?

Such was the logic in this head of mine:

I, like the rest, wrote "poison" on my bread,

But broke and ate:—said "Those that use the sword

Shall perish by the same;" then stabbed my foe.

I stand on solid earth, not empty air:

Dislodge me, let your Pope's crook hale me hence!

Not he, nor you! And I so pity both,

I 'll make the true charge you want wit to make:

"Count Guido, who reveal our mystery,

And trace all issues to the love of life:

We having life to love and guard, like you,

Why did you put us upon self-defence?

You well knew what prompt pass-word would appease

The sentry's ire when folk infringed his bounds,

And yet kept mouth shut: do you wonder then

If, in mere decency, he shot you dead?

He can't have people play such pranks as yours

Beneath his nose at noonday: you disdained

To give him an excuse before the world

By crying 'I break rule to save our camp!'

Under the old rule, such offence were death;

And you had heard the Pontifex pronounce,

'Since you slay foe and violate the form,

Slaying turns murder, which were sacrifice

Had you, while, say, lawsuiting foe to death,

But raised an altar to the Unknown God,

Or else the Genius of the Vatican.'

Why then this pother?—all because the Pope,

Doing his duty, cried 'A foreigner,

You scandalize the natives: here at Rome

Romano vivitur more:wise men, here,

Put the Church forward and efface themselves.

The fit defence had been,—you stamped on wheat,

Intending all the time to trample tares,—

Were fain extirpate, then, the heretic,

You now find, in your haste was slain a fool:

Nor Pietro, nor Violante, nor your wife

Meant to breed up your babe a Molinist!

Whence you are duly contrite. Not one word

Of all this wisdom did you urge: which slip

Death must atone for.'"

So, let death atone!

So ends mistake, so end mistakers!—end

Perhaps to recommence,—how should I know?

Only, be sure, no punishment, no pain

Childish, preposterous, impossible,

But some such fate as Ovid could foresee,—

Byblis in fluvium, let the weak soul end

In water,sed Lycaon in lupum, but

The strong become a wolf forevermore!

Change that Pompilia to a puny stream

Fit to reflect the daisies on its bank!

Let me turn wolf, be whole, and sate, for once,—

Wallow in what is now a wolfishness

Coerced too much by the humanity

That 's half of me as well! Grow out of man,

Glut the wolf-nature,—what remains but grow

Into the man again, be man indeed

And all man? Do I ring the changes right?

Deformed, transformed, reformed, informed, conformed!

The honest instinct, pent and crossed through life,

Let surge by death into a visible flow

Of rapture: as the strangled thread of flame

Painfully winds, annoying and annoyed,

Malignant and maligned, through stone and ore,

Till earth exclude the stranger: vented once,

It finds full play, is recognized atop

Some mountain as no such abnormal birth,

Fire for the mount, not streamlet for the vale!

Ay, of the water was that wife of mine—

Be it for good, be it for ill, no run

O' the red thread through that insignificance!

Again, how she is at me with those eyes!

Away with the empty stare! Be holy still,

And stupid ever! Occupy your patch

Of private snow that 's somewhere in what world

May now be growing icy round your head,

And aguish at your footprint,—freeze not me,

Dare follow not another step I take,

Not with so much as those detested eyes,

No, though they follow but to pray me pause

On the incline, earth's edge that 's next to hell!

None of your abnegation of revenge!

Fly at me frank, tug while I tear again!

There 's God, go tell him, testify your worst!

Not she! There was no touch in her of hate:

And it would prove her hell, if I reached mine!

To know I suffered, would still sadden her,

Do what the angels might to make amends!

Therefore there 's either no such place as hell,

Or thence shall I be thrust forth, for her sake,

And thereby undergo three hells, not one—

I who, with outlet for escape to heaven,

Would tarry if such flight allowed my foe

To raise his head, relieved of that firm foot

Had pinned him to the fiery pavement else!

So am I made, "who did not make myself:"

(How dared she rob my own lip of the word?)

Beware me in what other world may be!—

Pompilia, who have brought me to this pass!

All I know here, will I say there, and go

Beyond the saying with the deed. Some use

There cannot but be for a mood like mine,

Implacable, persistent in revenge.

She maundered, "All is over and at end:

I go my own road, go you where God will!

Forgive you? I forget you!" There 's the saint

That takes your taste, you other kind of men!

How you had loved her! Guido wanted skill

To value such a woman at her worth!

Properly the instructed criticise,

"What 's here, you simpleton have tossed to take

Its chance i' the gutter? This a daub, indeed?

Why, 't is a Rafael that you kicked to rags!"

Perhaps so: some prefer the pure design:

Give me my gorge of color, glut of gold

In a glory round the Virgin made for me!

Titian 's the man, not Monk Angelico

Who traces you some timid chalky ghost

That turns the church into a charnel: ay,

Just such a pencil might depict my wife!

She,—since she, also, would not change herself,—

Why could not she come in some heart-shaped cloud,

Rainbowed about with riches, royalty

Rimming her round, as round the tintless lawn

Guardingly runs the selvage cloth of gold?

I would have left the faint fine gauze untouched,

Needle-worked over with its lily and rose,

Let her bleach unmolested in the midst,

Chill that selected solitary spot

Of quietude she pleased to think was life.

Purity, pallor grace the lawn no doubt

When there 's the costly bordure to unthread

And make again an ingot: but what 's grace

When you want meat and drink and clothes and fire?

A tale comes to my mind that 's apposite—Possibly true, probably false, a truthSuch as all truths we live by, Cardinal!'T is said, a certain ancestor of mineFollowed—whoever was the potentate,To Paynimrie, and in some battle, brokeThrough more than due allowance of the foe,And, risking much his own life, saved the lord's.Battered and bruised, the Emperor scrambles up,Rubs his eyes and looks round and sees my sire,Picks a furze-sprig from out his hauberk-joint,(Token how near the ground went majesty,)And says, "Take this, and if thou get safe home,Plant the same in thy garden-ground to grow:Run thence an hour in a straight line, and stop:Describe a circle round (for central point)The furze aforesaid, reaching every wayThe length of that hour's run: I give it thee,—The central point, to build a castle there,The space circumjacent, for fit demesne,The whole to be thy children's heritage,—Whom, for the sake, bid thou wear furze on cap!"Those are my arms: we turned the furze a treeTo show more, and the greyhound tied thereto,Straining to start, means swift and greedy both;He stands upon a triple mount of gold—By Jove, then, he 's escaping from true goldAnd trying to arrive at empty air!Aha! the fancy never crossed my mind!My father used to tell me, and subjoin,"As for the castle, that took wings and flew:The broad lands,—why, to traverse them to-dayScarce tasks my gouty feet, and in my primeI doubt not I could stand and spit so far:But for the furze, boy, fear no lack of that,So long as fortune leaves one field to grub!Wherefore, hurrah for furze and loyalty!"What may I mean, where may the lesson lurk?"Do not bestow on man, by way of gift,Furze without land for framework,—vaunt no graceOf purity, no furze-sprig of a wife,To me, i' the thick of battle for my bread,Without some better dowry,—gold will do!"No better gift than sordid muck? Yes, Sirs!Many more gifts much better. Give them me!O those Olimpias bold, those Biancas brave,That brought a husband power worth Ormuz' wealth!Cried, "Thou being mine, why, what but thine am I?Be thou to me law, right, wrong, heaven and hell!Let us blend souls, blent, thou in me, to bidTwo bodies work one pleasure! What are theseCalled king, priest, father, mother, stranger, friend?They fret thee or they frustrate? Give the word—Be certain they shall frustrate nothing more!And who is this young florid foolishnessThat holds thy fortune in his pygmy clutch,—Being a prince and potency, forsooth!—He hesitates to let the trifle go?Let me but seal up eye, sing ear to sleepSounder than Samson,—pounce thou on the prizeShall slip from off my breast, and down couch-side,And on to floor, and far as my lord's feet—Where he stands in the shadow with the knife,Waiting to see what Delilah dares do!Is the youth fair? What is a man to meWho am thy call-bird? Twist his neck—my dupe's,—Then take the breast shall turn a breast indeed!"Such women are there; and they marry whom?Why, when a man has gone and hanged himselfBecause of what he calls a wicked wife,—See, if the very turpitude bemoanedProve not mere excellence the fool ignores!His monster is perfection,—Circe, sentStraight from the sun, with wand the idiot blamesAs not an honest distaff to spin wool!O thou Lucrezia, is it long to waitYonder where all the gloom is in a glowWith thy suspected presence?—virgin yet,Virtuous again, in face of what's to teach—Sin unimagined, unimaginable,—I come to claim my bride,—thy Borgia's selfNot half the burning bridegroom I shall be!Cardinal, take away your crucifix!Abate, leave my lips alone,—they bite!Vainly you try to change what should not change,And shall not. I have bared, you bathe my heart—It grows the stonier for your saving dew!You steep the substance, you would lubricate,In waters that but touch to petrify!You too are petrifactions of a kind:Move not a muscle that shows mercy; raveAnother twelve hours, every word were waste!I thought you would not slay impenitence,But teased, from men you slew, contrition first,—I thought you had a conscience. Cardinal,You know I am wronged!—wronged, say, and wronged, maintain.Was this strict inquisition made for bloodWhen first you showed us scarlet on your back,Called to the College? Your straightforward wayTo your legitimate end,—I think it passedOver a scantling of heads brained, hearts broke,Lives trodden into dust!—how otherwise?Such was the way o' the world, and so you walked.Does memory haunt your pillow? Not a whit.God wills you never pace your garden-path,One appetizing hour ere dinner-time,But your intrusion there treads out of lifeA universe of happy innocent things:Feel you remorse about that damsel-flyWhich buzzed so near your mouth and flapped your face?You blotted it from being at a blow:It was a fly, you were a man, and more,Lord of created things, so took your course.Manliness, mind,—these are things fit to save,Fit to brush fly from: why, because I takeMy course, must needs the Pope kill me?—kill you!You! for this instrument, he throws away,Is strong to serve a master, and were yoursTo have and hold and get much good from out!The Pope who dooms me needs must die next year;I 'll tell you how the chances are supposedFor his successor: first the Chamberlain,Old San Cesario,—Colloredo, next,—Then, one, two, three, four, I refuse to name;After these, comes Altieri; then come you—Seventh on the list yon come, unless ... ha, ha,How can a dead hand give a friend a lift?Are you the person to despise the helpO' the head shall drop in pannier presently?So a child seesaws on or kicks awayThe fulcrum-stone that 's all the sage requiresTo fit his lever to and move the world.Cardinal, I adjure you in God's name,Save my life, fall at the Pope's feet, set forthThings your own fashion, not in words like theseMade for a sense like yours who apprehend!Translate into the Court-conventional"Count Guido must not die, is innocent!Fair, be assured! But what an he were foul,Blood-drenched and murder-crusted head to foot?Spare one whose death insults the Emperor,Nay, outrages the Louis you so love!He has friends who will avenge him; enemiesWho will hate God now with impunity,Missing the old coercive: would you sendA soul straight to perdition, dying frankAn atheist?" Go and say this, for God's sake!—Why, you don't think I hope you 'll say one word?Neither shall I persuade you from your standNor you persuade me from my station: takeYour crucifix away, I tell you twice!

A tale comes to my mind that 's apposite—

Possibly true, probably false, a truth

Such as all truths we live by, Cardinal!

'T is said, a certain ancestor of mine

Followed—whoever was the potentate,

To Paynimrie, and in some battle, broke

Through more than due allowance of the foe,

And, risking much his own life, saved the lord's.

Battered and bruised, the Emperor scrambles up,

Rubs his eyes and looks round and sees my sire,

Picks a furze-sprig from out his hauberk-joint,

(Token how near the ground went majesty,)

And says, "Take this, and if thou get safe home,

Plant the same in thy garden-ground to grow:

Run thence an hour in a straight line, and stop:

Describe a circle round (for central point)

The furze aforesaid, reaching every way

The length of that hour's run: I give it thee,—

The central point, to build a castle there,

The space circumjacent, for fit demesne,

The whole to be thy children's heritage,—

Whom, for the sake, bid thou wear furze on cap!"

Those are my arms: we turned the furze a tree

To show more, and the greyhound tied thereto,

Straining to start, means swift and greedy both;

He stands upon a triple mount of gold—

By Jove, then, he 's escaping from true gold

And trying to arrive at empty air!

Aha! the fancy never crossed my mind!

My father used to tell me, and subjoin,

"As for the castle, that took wings and flew:

The broad lands,—why, to traverse them to-day

Scarce tasks my gouty feet, and in my prime

I doubt not I could stand and spit so far:

But for the furze, boy, fear no lack of that,

So long as fortune leaves one field to grub!

Wherefore, hurrah for furze and loyalty!"

What may I mean, where may the lesson lurk?

"Do not bestow on man, by way of gift,

Furze without land for framework,—vaunt no grace

Of purity, no furze-sprig of a wife,

To me, i' the thick of battle for my bread,

Without some better dowry,—gold will do!"

No better gift than sordid muck? Yes, Sirs!

Many more gifts much better. Give them me!

O those Olimpias bold, those Biancas brave,

That brought a husband power worth Ormuz' wealth!

Cried, "Thou being mine, why, what but thine am I?

Be thou to me law, right, wrong, heaven and hell!

Let us blend souls, blent, thou in me, to bid

Two bodies work one pleasure! What are these

Called king, priest, father, mother, stranger, friend?

They fret thee or they frustrate? Give the word—

Be certain they shall frustrate nothing more!

And who is this young florid foolishness

That holds thy fortune in his pygmy clutch,

—Being a prince and potency, forsooth!—

He hesitates to let the trifle go?

Let me but seal up eye, sing ear to sleep

Sounder than Samson,—pounce thou on the prize

Shall slip from off my breast, and down couch-side,

And on to floor, and far as my lord's feet—

Where he stands in the shadow with the knife,

Waiting to see what Delilah dares do!

Is the youth fair? What is a man to me

Who am thy call-bird? Twist his neck—my dupe's,—

Then take the breast shall turn a breast indeed!"

Such women are there; and they marry whom?

Why, when a man has gone and hanged himself

Because of what he calls a wicked wife,—

See, if the very turpitude bemoaned

Prove not mere excellence the fool ignores!

His monster is perfection,—Circe, sent

Straight from the sun, with wand the idiot blames

As not an honest distaff to spin wool!

O thou Lucrezia, is it long to wait

Yonder where all the gloom is in a glow

With thy suspected presence?—virgin yet,

Virtuous again, in face of what's to teach—

Sin unimagined, unimaginable,—

I come to claim my bride,—thy Borgia's self

Not half the burning bridegroom I shall be!

Cardinal, take away your crucifix!

Abate, leave my lips alone,—they bite!

Vainly you try to change what should not change,

And shall not. I have bared, you bathe my heart—

It grows the stonier for your saving dew!

You steep the substance, you would lubricate,

In waters that but touch to petrify!

You too are petrifactions of a kind:

Move not a muscle that shows mercy; rave

Another twelve hours, every word were waste!

I thought you would not slay impenitence,

But teased, from men you slew, contrition first,—

I thought you had a conscience. Cardinal,

You know I am wronged!—wronged, say, and wronged, maintain.

Was this strict inquisition made for blood

When first you showed us scarlet on your back,

Called to the College? Your straightforward way

To your legitimate end,—I think it passed

Over a scantling of heads brained, hearts broke,

Lives trodden into dust!—how otherwise?

Such was the way o' the world, and so you walked.

Does memory haunt your pillow? Not a whit.

God wills you never pace your garden-path,

One appetizing hour ere dinner-time,

But your intrusion there treads out of life

A universe of happy innocent things:

Feel you remorse about that damsel-fly

Which buzzed so near your mouth and flapped your face?

You blotted it from being at a blow:

It was a fly, you were a man, and more,

Lord of created things, so took your course.

Manliness, mind,—these are things fit to save,

Fit to brush fly from: why, because I take

My course, must needs the Pope kill me?—kill you!

You! for this instrument, he throws away,

Is strong to serve a master, and were yours

To have and hold and get much good from out!

The Pope who dooms me needs must die next year;

I 'll tell you how the chances are supposed

For his successor: first the Chamberlain,

Old San Cesario,—Colloredo, next,—

Then, one, two, three, four, I refuse to name;

After these, comes Altieri; then come you—

Seventh on the list yon come, unless ... ha, ha,

How can a dead hand give a friend a lift?

Are you the person to despise the help

O' the head shall drop in pannier presently?

So a child seesaws on or kicks away

The fulcrum-stone that 's all the sage requires

To fit his lever to and move the world.

Cardinal, I adjure you in God's name,

Save my life, fall at the Pope's feet, set forth

Things your own fashion, not in words like these

Made for a sense like yours who apprehend!

Translate into the Court-conventional

"Count Guido must not die, is innocent!

Fair, be assured! But what an he were foul,

Blood-drenched and murder-crusted head to foot?

Spare one whose death insults the Emperor,

Nay, outrages the Louis you so love!

He has friends who will avenge him; enemies

Who will hate God now with impunity,

Missing the old coercive: would you send

A soul straight to perdition, dying frank

An atheist?" Go and say this, for God's sake!

—Why, you don't think I hope you 'll say one word?

Neither shall I persuade you from your stand

Nor you persuade me from my station: take

Your crucifix away, I tell you twice!

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