“I have companionship and use the night:
“I seek my wife and child,—I find—no child
“But wife, in the embraces of that priest
“Who caused her to elope from me. These two,
“Backed by the pander-pair who watch the while,
“Spring on me like so many tiger-cats,
“Glad of the chance to end the intruder. I—
“What should I do but stand on my defence,
“Strike right, strike left, strike thick and threefold, slay,
“Not all—because the coward priest escapes. (1720)
“Last, I escape, in fear of evil tongues,
“And having had my taste of Roman law.”
What’s disputable, refutable here?—
Save by just one ghost-thing half on earth,
Half out of it,—as if she held God’s hand
While she leant back and looked her last at me,
Forgiving me (here monks begin to weep)
Oh, from her very soul, commending mine
To heavenly mercies which are infinite,—
While fixing fast my head beneath your knife! (1730)
’Tis fate not fortune! All is of a piece!
What was it you informed me of my youths?
My rustic four o’ the family, soft swains,
What sweet surprise had they in store for me,
Those of my very household,—what did Law
Twist with her rack-and-cord-contrivance late
From out their bones and marrow? What but this—
Had no one of these several stumbling-blocks
Stopped me, they yet were cherishing a scheme,
All of their honest country homespun wit, (1740)
To quietly next day at crow of cock,
Cut my own throat too, for their own behoof,
Seeing I had forgot to clear accounts
O’ the instant, nowise slackened speed for that,—
And somehow never might find memory,
Once safe back in Arezzo, where things change,
And a court-lord needs mind no country lout.
Well, being the arch-offender, I die last,—
May, ere my head falls, have my eyesight free,
Nor miss them dangling high on either hand, (1750)
Like scarecrows in a hemp-field, for their pains!
Like a corrosive, so the cards are packed,
Dice loaded, and my life-stake tricked away!
Look at my lawyers, lacked they grace of law,
Latin or logic? Were not they fools to the height,
Fools to the depth, fools to the level between,
O’ the foolishness set to decide the case?
They feign, they flatter; nowise does it skill,
Everything goes against me: deal each judge (1760)
His dole of flattery and feigning,—why,
He turns and tries and snuffs and savours it,
As an old fly the sugar- grain, your gift;
Then eyes your thumb and finger, brushes clean
The absurd old head of him, and whisks away,
Leaving your thumb and finger dirty. Faugh!
Of affront, failure, failure and affront,—
This path, twixt crosses leading to a skull,
Paced by me barefoot, bloodied by my palms (1770)
From the entry to the end,—there’s light at length,
A cranny of escape,—appeal may be
To the old man, to the father, to the Pope
For a little life—from one whose life is spent,
A little pity—from pity’s source and seat,
A little indulgence to rank, privilege,
From one who is the thing personified,
Rank, privilege, indulgence, grown beyond
Earth’s bearing, even, ask Jansenius else!
Still the same answer, still no other tune (1780)
From the cicala perched at the tree-top
Than crickets noisy round the root,—’tis “Die!”
Bids Law—“Be damned!” adds Gospel,—nay,
No word so frank,—’tis rather, “Save yourself!”
The Pope subjoins—“Confess and be absolved!
“So shall my credit countervail your shame,
“And the world see I have not lost the knack
“Of trying all the spirits,—yours, my son,
“Wants but a fiery washing to emerge
“In clarity! Come, cleanse you, ease the ache (1790)
“Of these old bones, refresh our bowels, boy!”
Do I mistake your mission from the Pope?
Then, bear his Holiness the mind of me!
I do get strength from being thrust to wall,
Successively wrenched from pillar and from post
By this tenacious hate of fortune, hate
Of all things in, under, and above earth.
Warfare, begun this mean unmanly mode,
Does best to end so,—gives earth spectacle
Of a brave fighter who succumbs to odds (1800)
That turn defeat to victory. Stab, I fold
My mantle round me! Rome approves my act:
Applauds the blow which costs me life but keeps
My honour spotless: Rome would praise no more
Had I fallen, say, some fifteen years ago,
Helping Vienna when our Aretines
Flocked to Duke Charles and fought Turk Mustafa:
Nor would you two be trembling o’er my corpse
With all this exquisite solicitude.
Why is it that I make such suit to live? (1810)
The popular sympathy that’s round me now
Would break like bubble that o’er-domes a fly—
Pretty enough while he lies quiet there,
But let him want the air and ply the wing,
Why, it breaks and bespatters him, what else?
Cardinal, if the Pope had pardoned me,
And I walked out of prison through the crowd,
It would not be your arm I should dare press!
Then, if I got safe to my place again,
How sad and sapless were the years to come! (1820)
I go my old ways and find things grown grey;
You priests leer at me, old friends look askance;
The mob’s in love, I’ll wager, to a man,
With my poor young good beauteous murdered wife:
For hearts require instruction how to beat,
And eyes, on warrant of the story, wax
Wanton at portraiture in white and black
Of dead Pompilia gracing ballad-sheet,
Which, had she died unmurdered and unsung,
Would never turn though she paced street
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