O’ the blade, “Die,” cried she, “devil, in God’s name!”
Ah, but they all closed round her, twelve to one,
—The unmanly men, no woman-mother made,
Spawned somehow! Dead-white and disarmed she lay.
No matter for the sword, her word sufficed (1550)
To spike the coward through and through: he shook,
Could only spit between the teeth—“You see?
“You hear? Bear witness, then! Write down … but, no—
“Carry these criminals to the prison-house,
“For first thing! I begin my search meanwhile
“After the stolen effects, gold, jewels, plate,
“Money, and clothes, they robbed me of and fled:
“With no few amorous pieces, verse and prose,
“I have much reason to expect to find.”
Made out the speaker mad and a laughing- stock,
So neither did this next device explode
One listener’s indignation,—that a scribe
Did sit down, set himself to write indeed,
And sundry knaves began to peer and pry
In corner and hole,—that Guido, wiping brow
And getting him a countenance, was fast
Losing his fear, beginning to strut free
O’ the stage of his exploit, snuff here, sniff there,—
I took the truth in, guessed sufficiently (1570)
The service for the moment—“What I say,
“Slight at your peril! We are aliens here,
“My adversary and I, called noble both;
“I am the nobler, and a name men know.
“I could refer our cause to our own court
“In our own country, but prefer appeal
“To the nearer jurisdiction. Being a priest,
“Though in a secular garb,—for reasons good
“I shall adduce in due time to my peers,—
“I demand that the Church I serve, decide (1580)
“Between us, right the slandered lady there.
“A Tuscan noble, I might claim the Duke:
“A priest, I rather choose the Church,—bid Rome
“Cover the wronged with her inviolate shield.”
They bore her off, to separate cells o’ the same
Ignoble prison, and, separate, thence to Rome.
Pompilia’s face, then and thus, looked on me
The last time in this life: not one sight since,
Never another sight to be! And yet (1590)
I thought I had saved her. I appealed to Rome:
It seems I simply sent her to her death.
You tell me she is dying now, or dead;
I cannot bring myself to quite believe
This is a place you torture people in:
What if this your intelligence were just
A subtlety, an honest wile to work
On a man at unawares? ’Twere worthy you.
No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!
That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye, (1600)
That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!)
That vision in the blood-red day-break—that
Leap to life of the pale electric sword
Angels go armed with,—that was not the last
O’ the lady! Come, I see through it, you find—
Know the manœuvre! Also herself said
I had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?
Let me see for myself if it be so!
Though she were dying, a priest might be of use,
The more when he’s a friend too,—she called me (1610)
Far beyond “friend.” Come, let me see her—indeed
It is my duty, being a priest: I hope
I stand confessed, established, proved a priest?
My punishment had motive that, a priest
I, in a laic garb, a mundane mode,
Did what were harmlessly done otherwise.
I never touched her with my finger-tip
Except to carry her to the couch, that eve,
Against my heart, beneath my head, bowed low,
As we priests carry the paten: that is why (1620)
—To get leave and go see her of your grace—
I have told you this whole story over again.
Do I deserve grace? For I might lock lips,
Laugh at your jurisdiction: what have you
To do with me in the matter? I suppose
You hardly think I donned a bravo’s dress
To have a hand in the new crime; on the old,
Judgment’s delivered, penalty imposed,
I was chained fast at Civita hand and foot—
She had only you to trust to, you and Rome, (1630)
Rome and the Church, and no pert meddling priest
Two days ago, when Guido, with the right,
Hacked her to pieces. One might well be wroth;
I have been patient, done my best to help:
I come from Civita and punishment
As a friend of the court—and for pure friendship’s sake
Have told my tale to the end,—nay, not the end—
For, wait—I’ll end—not leave you that excuse!
I was presently brought to Rome—yes, here I stood (1640)
Opposite yonder very crucifix—
And there sat you and you, Sirs, quite the same,
I heard charge, and bore question, and told tale
Noted down in the book there,—turn and see
If, by one jot or tittle, I vary now!
I’ the colour the tale takes, there’s change perhaps;
’Tis natural, since the sky is different,
Eclipse in the air now; still, the outline stays.
I showed you how it came to be my part
To save the lady. Then your clerk produced (1650)
Papers, a pack of stupid and impure
Banalities called letters about love—
Love, indeed,—I could teach who styled them so.
Better, I think, though priest and loveless both!
“—How was it that a wife, young, innocent,
“And stranger to your person, wrote this page?”—
“—She wrote it when the Holy Father wrote
“The bestiality that posts thro’ Rome,
“Put in his mouth by Pasquin.”—“Nor perhaps
“Did you return these answers, verse, and prose, (1660)
“Signed, sealed and sent the lady? There’s your
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