Nor do I much perplex me with aught hard,
Dubious in the transmitting of the tale,—
No, nor with certain riddles set to solve.
This life is training and a passage; pass,— (1410)
Still, we march over some flat obstacle
We made give way before us; solid truth
In front of it, were motion for the world?
The moral sense grows but by exercise.
’Tis even as man grew probatively
Initiated in Godship, set to make
A fairer moral world than this he finds,
Guess now what shall be known hereafter. Thus,
O’ the present problem: as we see and speak,
A faultless creature is destroyed, and sin (1420)
Has had its way i’ the world where God should rule.
Ay, but for this irrelevant circumstance
Of inquisition after blood, we see
Pompilia lost and Guido saved: how long?
For his whole life: how much is that whole life?
We are not babes, but know the minute’s worth,
And feel that life is large and the world small,
So, wait till life have passed from out the world.
That, whereas I can so receive and trust, (1430)
Men, made with hearts and souls the same as mine,
Reject and disbelieve,—subordinate
The future to the present,—sin, nor fear.
This I refer still to the foremost fact,
Life is probation and this earth no goal
But starting-point of man: compel him strive,
Which means, in man, as good as reach the goal,—
Why institute that race, his life, at all?
But this does overwhelm me with surprise,
Touch me to terror,—not that faith, the pearl, (1440)
Should be let lie by fishers wanting food,—
Nor, seen and handled by a certain few
Critical and contemptuous, straight consigned
To shore and shingle for the pebble it proves,—
But that, when haply found and known and named
By the residue made rich for evermore,
These,—ay, these favoured ones, should in a trice
Turn, and with double zest go dredge for whelks,
Mud-worms that make the savoury soup. Enough
O’ the disbelievers, see the faithful few! (1450)
How do the Christians here deport them, keep
Their robes of white unspotted by the world?
What is this Aretine Archbishop, this
Man under me as I am under God,
This champion of the faith, I armed and decked,
Pushed forward, put upon a pinnacle,
To show the enemy his victor,—see!
What’s the best fighting when the couple close?
Pompilia cries, “Protect me from the fiend!”
“No, for thy Guido is one heady, strong, (1460)
“Dangerous to disquiet: let him bide!
“He needs some bone to mumble, help amuse
“The darkness of his den with: so, the fawn
“Which limps up bleeding to my foot and lies,
“—Come to me, daughter,—thus I throw him back!”
Have we misjudged here, over-armed the knight,
Given gold and silk where the plain steel serves best,
Enfeebled whom we sought to fortify,
Made an archbishop and undone a saint?
Well then, descend these heights, this pride of life, (1470)
Sit in the ashes with the barefoot monk
Who long ago stamped out the worldly sparks.
Fasting and watching, stone cell and wire scourge,
—No such indulgence as unknits the strength—
These breed the tight nerve and tough cuticle,
Let the world’s praise or blame run rillet-wise
Off the broad back and brawny breast, we know!
He meets the first cold sprinkle of the world
And shudders to the marrow, “Save this child?
“Oh, my superiors, oh, the Archbishop here! (1480)
“Who was it dared lay hand upon the ark
“His betters saw fall nor put finger forth?
“Great ones could help yet help not: why should small?
“I break my promise: let her break her heart!”
These are the Christians not the wordlings, not
The sceptics, who thus battle for the faith!
If foolish virgins disobey and sleep,
What wonder? But the wise that watch, this time
Sell lamps and buy lutes, exchange oil for wine,
The mystic Spouse betrays the Bridegroom here. (1490)
To our last resource, then! Since all flesh is weak,
Bind weaknesses together, we get strength:
The individual weighed, found wanting, try
Some institution, honest artifice
Whereby the units grow compact and firm:
Each props the other, and so stand is made
By our embodied cowards that grow brave.
The Monastery called of Convertites,
Meant to help women because these helped Christ,—
A thing existent only while it acts, (1500)
Does as designed, else a nonentity,
For what is an idea unrealised?—
Pompilia is consigned to these for help.
They do help; they are prompt to testify
To her pure life and saintly dying days.
She dies, and lo, who seemed so poor, proves rich!
What does the body that lives through helpfulness
To women for Christ’s sake? The kiss turns bite,
The dove’s note changes to the crow’s cry: judge!
“Seeing that this our Convent claims of right (1510)
“What goods belong to those we succour, be
“The same proved women of dishonest life,—
“And seeing that this Trial made appear
“Pompilia was in such predicament,—
“The Convent hereupon pretends to said
“Succession of Pompilia, issues writ,
“And takes possession by the Fisc’s advice.”
Such is their attestation to the cause
Of Christ, who had one saint at least, they hoped:
But, is a title-deed to filch, a corpse (1520)
To slander, and an infant-heir to cheat?
Christ must give up his gains then! They unsay
All the fine speeches,—who was saint is whore.
Why, scripture yields no parallel for this!
The soldiers only threw dice for Christ’s coat;
We want another legend of the Twelve
Disputing
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