What was there here should have perplexed your wit
For a wink of the owl- eyes of you? How miss, then,
What’s now forced on you by this flare of fact—
As if Saint Peter failed to recognise
Nero as no apostle, John or James,
Till someone burned a martyr, make a torch (1790)
O’ the blood and fat to show his features by!
Could you fail read this cartulary aright
On head and front of Franceschini there,
Large-lettered like hell’s masterpiece of print,—
That he, from the beginning pricked at heart
By some lust, letch of hate against his wife,
Plotted to plague her into overt sin
And shame, would slay Pompilia body and soul,
And save his mean self—miserably caught
I’ the quagmire of his own tricks, cheats, and lies? (1800)
—That himself wrote those papers,—from himself
To himself,—which, i’ the name of me and her,
His mistress-messenger gave her and me,
Touching us with such pustules of the soul
That she and I might take the taint, be shown
To the world and shuddered over, speckled so?
—That the agent put her sense into my words,
Made substitution of the thing she hoped,
For the thing she had and held, its opposite,
While the husband in the background bit his lips (1810)
At each fresh failure of his precious plot?
—That when at the last we did rush each on each,
By no chance but because God willed it so—
The spark of truth was struck from out our souls—
Made all of me, descried in the first glance,
Seem fair and honest and permissible love
O’ the good and true—as the first glance told me
There was no duty patent in the world
Like daring try be good and true myself,
Leaving the shows of things to the Lord of Show (1820)
And prince o’ the Power of the Air. Our very flight,
Even to its most ambiguous circumstance,
Irrefragably proved how futile, false …
Why, men—men and not boys—boys and not babes—
Babes and not beasts—beasts and not stocks and stones!—
Had the liar’s lie been true one pin-point speck,
Were I the accepted suitor, free o’ the place,
Disposer of the time, to come at a call
And go at a wink as who should say me nay,—
What need of flight, what were the gain therefrom (1830)
But just damnation, failure or success?
Damnation pure and simple to her the wife
And me the priest—who bartered private bliss
For public reprobation, the safe shade
For the sunshine which men see to pelt me by:
What other advantage,—we who led the days
And nights alone i’ the house,—was flight to find?
In our whole journey did we stop an hour,
Diverge a foot from strait road till we reached
Or would have reached—but for that fate of ours— (1840)
The father and mother, in the eye of Rome,
The eye of yourselves we made aware of us
At the first fall of misfortune? And indeed
You did so far give sanction to our flight,
Confirm its purpose, as lend helping hand,
Deliver up Pompilia not to him
She fled, but those the flight was ventured for.
Why then could you, who stopped short, not go on
One poor step more, and justify the means,
Having allowed the end?—not see and say, (1850)
“Here’s the exceptional conduct that should claim
“To be exceptionally judged on rules
“Which, understood, make no exception here”—
Why play instead into the devil’s hands
By dealing so ambiguously as gave
Guido the power to intervene like me,
Prove one exception more? I saved his wife
Against law: against law he slays her now:
Deal with him!
I stand here guiltless in thought, word and deed,
To the point that I apprise you,—in contempt
For all misapprehending ignorance
O’ the human heart, much more the mind of Christ,—
That I assuredly did bow, was blessed
By the revelation of Pompilia. There!
Such is the final fact I fling you, Sirs,
To mouth and mumble and misinterpret: there!
“The priest’s in love,” have it the vulgar way!
Unpriest me, rend the rags o’ the vestment, do— (1870)
Degrade deep, disenfranchise all you dare—
Remove me from the midst, no longer priest
And fit companion for the like of you—
Your gay Abati with the well-turned leg
And rose i’ the hat-rim, Canons, cross at neck
And silk mask in the pocket of the gown,
Brisk bishops with the world’s musk still unbrushed
From the rochet; I’ll no more of these good things:
There’s a crack somewhere, something that’s unsound
I’ the rattle! (1880)
Build churches, go pray! You will find me there,
I know, if you come,—and you will come, I know.
Why, there’s a Judge weeping! Did not I say
You were good and true at bottom? You see the truth—
I am glad I helped you: she helped me just so.
I bow my head, bend to the very dust,
Break myself up in shame of faultiness.
I had him one whole moment, as I said— (1890)
As I remember, as will never out
O’ the thoughts of me,—I had him in arm’s reach
There,—as you stand, Sir, now you cease to sit,—
I could have killed him ere he killed his wife,
And did not: he went off alive and well
And then effected this last feat—through me!
Me—not through you—dismiss that fear! ’Twas you
Hindered me staying here to
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