This a tough point, shrewd, redoubtable:
Because we have to supplicate the judge
Shall overlook wrong done the judgment-seat.
Now, I might suffer my own nose be pulled, (1340)
As man—but then as father … if the Fisc
Touched one hair of my boy who held my hand
In confidence he could not come to harm
Crossing the Corso, at my own desire,
Going to see those bodies in the church—
What would you say to that, Don Hyacinth?
This is the sole and single knotty point:
For, bid Tommati blink his interest,
You laud his magnanimity the while:
But baulk Tommati’s office,—he talks big! (1350)
“My predecessors in the place,—those sons
“O’ the prophets that may hope succeed me here,—
“Shall I diminish their prerogative?
“Count Guido Franceschini’s honour!—well,
“Has the Governor of Rome none?”
The cards are all against us. Make a push,
Kick over table, as our gamesters do!
We, do you say, encroach upon the rights,
Deny the omnipotence o’ the Judge forsooth? (1360)
We, who have only been from first to last
Intent on that his purpose should prevail,
Nay, more, at times, anticipating both
At risk of a rebuke?
Cannot we lump this with the sixth and last
Of the aggravations—that the Majesty
O’ the Sovereign here received a wound, to-wit,
Læsa Majestas, since our violence
Was out of envy to the course of law, (1370)
In odium litis? We cut short thereby
Three pending suits, promoted by ourselves
I’ the main,—which worsens crime, accedit ad
Exasperationem criminis!
How—did not indignation chain my tongue—
Could I repel this last, worst charge of all!
(There is a porcupine to barbacue;
Gigia can jug a rabbit well enough,
With sour-sweet sauce and pine-pips; but, good Lord, (1380)
Suppose the devil instigate the wench
To stew, not roast him? Stew my porcupine?
If she does, I know where his quills shall stick!
Come, I must go myself and see to things:
I cannot stay much longer stewing here)
Our stomach … I mean, our soul—is stirred within,
And we want words. We wounded Majesty?
Fall under such a censure, we,—who yearned
So much that Majesty dispel the cloud
And shine on us with healing on its wings, (1390)
We prayed the Pope, Majestas’ very self,
To anticipate a little the tardy pack,
Bell us forth deep the authoritative bay
Should start the beagles into sudden yelp
Unisonous,—and, Gospel leading Law,
Grant there assemble in our own behoof
A Congregation, a particular Court,
A few picked friends of quality and place,
To hear the several matters in dispute,
Causes big, little and indifferent, (1400)
Bred of our marriage like a mushroom- growth,
All at once (can one brush off such too soon?)
And so with laudable dispatch decide
Whether we, in the main (to sink detail)
Were one the Church should hold fast or let go.
“What, take the credit from the Law?” you ask?
Indeed, we did! Law ducks to Gospel here:
Why should Law gain the glory and pronounce
A judgment shall immortalise the Pope?
Yes: our self-abnegating policy (1410)
Was Joab’s—we would rouse our David’s sloth,
Bid him encamp against a city, sack
A place whereto ourselves had long laid siege,
Lest, taking it at last, it take our name
And be not Innocentinopolis.
But no! The modesty was in alarm,
The temperance refused to interfere,
Returned us our petition with the word
“Ad judices suos,” “Leave him to his Judge!”
As who should say—“Why trouble my repose? (1420)
“Why consult Peter in a simple case,
“Peter’s wife’s sister in her fever-fit
“Might solve as readily as the Apostle’s self?
“Are my Tribunals posed by aught so plain?
“Hath not my Court a conscience? It is of age,
“Ask it!”
To the Court thou bidst me ask, as I have asked—
Oh thou, who vigilantly dost attend
To even the few, the ineffectual words (1430)
Which rise from this our low and mundane sphere
Up to thy region out of smoke and noise,
Seeking corroboration from thy nod
Who art all justice—which means mercy too,
In a low noisy smoky world like ours
Where Adam’s sin made peccable his seed!
We venerate the father of the flock,
Whose last faint sands of life, the frittered gold,
Fall noiselessly, yet all too fast, o’ the cone
And tapering heap of those collected years,— (1440)
Never have these been hurried in their flow,
Though justice fain would jog reluctant arm,
In eagerness to take the forfeiture
Of guilty life: much less shall mercy sue
In vain that thou let innocence survive,
Precipitate no minim of the mass
O’ the all-so precious moments of thy life,
By pushing Guido into death and doom!
They say, the Pope has one half-hour, in twelve, (1450)
Of something like a moderate return
Of the intellectuals,—never much to lose!—
If I adroitly plant this passage there,
The Fisc will find himself forestalled, I think,
Though he stand, beat till the old ear-drum break!
—Ah, boy of
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