They plainly were too stupid to invent,
Too simple to distinguish wrong from right,—
Inconscious agents they, the silly-sooth,
Of heaven’s retributive justice on the strong
Proud cunning violent oppressor—me! (1230)
Follow them to their fate and help your best,
You Rome, Arezzo, foes called friends of mine,
They gave the good long laugh to at my cost!
Defray your share o’ the cost since you partook
The entertainment! Do!—assured the while,
That not one stab, I dealt to right and left,
But went the deeper for a fancy—this—
That each might do me two-fold service, find
A friend’s face at the bottom of each wound,
And scratch its smirk a little! (1240)
There’s a report at Florence,—is it true?—
That when your relative the Cardinal
Built, only the other day, that barrack-bulk,
The palace in Via Larga, some one picked
From out the street a saucy quip enough
That fell there from its day’s flight through the town,
About the flat front and the windows wide
And ugly heap of cornice,—hitched the joke
Into a sonnet, signed his name thereto, (1250)
And forthwith pinned on post the pleasantry.
For which he’s at the galleys, rowing now
Up to his waist in water,—just because
Panciatic and lymphatic rhymed so pat:
I hope, Sir, those who passed this joke on me
Were not unduly punished? What say you,
Prince of the Church, my patron? Nay, indeed!
I shall not dare insult your wits so much
As think this problem difficult to solve!
This Pietro and Violante, then, I say, (1260)
These two ambiguous insects, changing name
And nature with the season’s warmth or chill,—
Now, grovelled, grubbing toiling moiling ants,
A very synonym of thrift and peace,—
Anon, with lusty June to prick their heart,
Soared i’ the air, winged flies for more offence,
Circled me, buzzed me deaf and stung me blind,
And stunk me dead with fetor in the face
Until I stopped the nuisance: there’s my crime!
Pity I did not suffer them subside (1270)
Into some further shape and final form
Of execrable life? My masters, no!
I, by one blow, wisely cut short at once
Them and their transformations of disgust
In the snug little Villa out of hand.
“Grant me confession, give bare time for that!”—
Shouted the sinner till his mouth was stopped.
His life confessed!—that was enough for me,
Who came to see that he did penance. ’S death!
Here’s a coil raised, a pother and for what? (1280)
Because strength, being provoked by weakness, fought
And conquered,—the world never heard the like!
Pah, how I spend my breath on them, as if
’Twas their fate troubled me, too hard to range
Among the right and fit and proper things!
She, unimpeached of crime, unimplicate
In folly, one of alien blood to these
I punish, why extend my claim, exact
Her portion of the penalty? Yes, friends, (1290)
I go too fast: the orator’s at fault:
Yes, ere I lay her, with your leave, by them
As she was laid at San Lorenzo late,
I ought to step back, lead her by degrees,
Recounting at each step some fresh offence,
Up to the red bed,—never fear, I will!
Gaze on her, where you place her, to begin,
Confound me with her gentleness and worth!
The horrible pair have fled and left her now,
She has her husband for her sole concern, (1300)
His wife, the woman fashioned for his help,
Flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, the bride
To groom as is the Church and Spouse, to Christ:
There she stands in his presence,—“Thy desire
“Shall be to the husband, o’er thee shall he rule!”
—“Pompilia, who declare that you love God,
“You know who said that: then, desire my love,
“Yield me contentment and be ruled aright!”
She sits up, she lies down, she comes and goes,
Kneels at the couch-side, overleans the sill (1310)
O’ the window, cold and pale and mute as stone,
Strong as stone also. “Well, are they not fled?
“Am I not left, am I not one for all?
“Speak a word, drop a tear, detach a glance,
“Bless me or curse me of your own accord!
“Is it the ceiling only wants your soul,
“Is worth your eyes?” And then the eyes descend
And do look at me. Is it at the meal?
“Speak!” she obeys, “Be silent!” she obeys,
Counting the minutes till I cry “Depart,” (1320)
As brood-bird when you saunter past her eggs,
Departed, just the same through door and wall
I see the same stone strength of white despair.
And all this will be never otherwise!
Before, the parents’ presence lent her life:
She could play off her sex’s armoury,
Intreat, reproach, be female to my male,
Try all the shrieking doubles of the hare,
Go clamour to the Commissary, bid
The Archbishop hold my hands and stop my tongue, (1330)
And yield fair sport so: but the tactics change,
The hare stands stock-still to enrage the hound!
Since that day when she learned she was no child
Of those she thought her parents,—that their trick
Had tricked me whom she thought sole trickster late,—
Why, I suppose she said within herself
“Then, no more struggle for my parents’ sake,
“And, for my own sake, why needs struggle be?”
But is there no third party to the pact?
What of her husband’s relish or dislike (1340)
For this new game of giving up the game,
This worst offence of not offending more?
I’ll not believe but instinct wrought in this,
Set her on to conceive and execute
The preferable plague…how sure they probe,—
These jades, the sensitivest soft of man!
The long black hair was wound now in a
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