“Renews the obsolete, does nothing more!
“Our fire-new gospel is retinkered law,
“Our mercy, justice,—Jove’s rechristened God—
“Nay, whereas, in the popular conceit,
“’Tis pity that old harsh Law somehow limps,
“Lingers on earth, although Law’s day be done,—
“Else would benignant Gospel interpose,
“Not furtively as now, but bold and frank (370)
“O’erflutter us with healing in her wings,—
“Law is all harshness, Gospel were all love!—
“We like to put it, on the contrary,—
“Gospel takes up the rod which Law lets fall;
“Mercy is vigilant when justice sleeps;
“Does Law let Guido taste the Gospel-grace?
“The secular arm allow the spiritual power
“To act for once?—what compliment so fine
“As that the Gospel handsomely be harsh,
“Thrust back Law’s victim on the nice and coy?” (380)
Yes, you do say so,—else you would forgive
Me, whom Law dares not touch but tosses you!
Don’t think to put on the professional face!
You know what I know,—casuists as you are,
Each nerve must creep, each hair start, sting, and stand,
At such illogical inconsequence!
Dear my friends, do but see! A murder’s tried,
There are two parties to the cause: I’m one,
—Defend myself, as somebody must do:
I have the best o’ the battle: that’s a fact. (390)
Simple fact,—fancies find no place beside:
What though half Rome condemned me? Half approved:
And, none disputes, the luck is mine at last,
All Rome, i’ the main, acquits me: whereupon
What has the Pope to ask but “How finds Law?”
“I find,” replies Law, “I have erred this while:
“Guilty or guiltless, Guido proves a priest,
“No layman: he is therefore yours, not mine:
“I bound him: loose him, you whose will is Christ’s!”
And now what does this Vicar of the Lord, (400)
Shepherd o’ the flock,—one of whose charge bleats sore
For crook’s help from the quag wherein it drowns?
Law suffers him put forth the crumpled end,—
His pleasure is to turn staff, use the point,
And thrust the shuddering sheep he calls a wolf,
Back and back, down and down to where hell gapes!
“Guiltless,” cries Law—“Guilty,” corrects the Pope!
“Guilty,” for the whim’s sake! “Guilty,” he somehow things,
And anyhow says: ’tis truth; he dares not lie!
Others should do the lying. That’s the cause (410)
Brings you both here: I ought in decency
Confess to you that I deserve my fate,
Am guilty, as the Pope thinks,—ay, to the end,
Keep up the jest, lie on, lie ever, lie
I’ the latest gasp of me! What reason, Sirs?
Because to-morrow will succeed to-day
For you, though not for me: and if I stick
Still to the truth, declare with my last breath,
I die an innocent and murdered man,—
Why, there’s the tongue of Rome will wag a-pace (420)
This time to-morrow,—don’t I hear the talk!
“So, to the last he proved impenitent?
“Pagans have said as much of martyred saints!
“Law demurred, washed her hands of the whole case.
“Prince Somebody said this, Duke Something, that.
“Doubtless the man’s dead, dead enough, don’t fear!
“But, hang it, what if there have been a spice,
“A touch of…eh? You see, the Pope’s so old,
“Some of us add, obtuse,—age never slips
“The chance of shoving youth to face death first!” (430)
And so on. Therefore to suppress such talk
You two come here, entreat I tell you lies,
And end, the edifying way. I end,
Telling the truth! Your self-styled shepherd thieves!
A thief—and how thieves hate the wolves we know:
Damage to theft, damage to thrift, all’s one!
The red hand is sworn foe of the black jaw!
That’s only natural, that’s right enough:
But why the wolf should compliment the thief
With the shepherd’s title, bark out life in thanks, (440)
And, spiteless, lick the prong that spits him,—eh,
Cardinal? My Abate, scarcely thus!
There, let my sheepskin-garb, a curse on’t go—
Leave my teeth free if I must show my shag!
Repent? What good shall follow? If I pass
Twelve hours repenting, will that fact hook fast
The thirteenth at the horrid dozen’s end?
If I fall forthwith at your feet, gnash, tear,
Foam, rave, to give your story the due grace,
Will that assist the engine half-way back (450)
Into its hiding-house?—boards, shaking now,
Bone against bone, like some old skeleton bat
That wants, now winter’s dead, to wake and prey!
Will howling put the spectre back to sleep?
Ah, but I misconceive your object, Sirs!
Since I want new life like the creature,—life
Being done with here, begins i’ the world away:
I shall next have “Come, mortals, and be judged!”
There’s but a minute betwixt this and then:
So, quick, be sorry since it saves my soul! (460)
Sirs, truth shall save it, since no lies assist!
Hear the truth, you, whatever you style yourselves,
Civilisation and society!
Come, one good grapple, I with all the world!
Dying in cold blood is the desperate thing;
The angry heart explodes, bears off in blaze
The indignant soul, and I’m combustion-ripe.
Why, you intend to do your worst with me!
That’s in your eyes! You dare no more than death,
And mean no less. I must make up my mind! (470)
So Pietro,—when I chased him here and there,
Morsel by morsel cut away the life
I loathed,—cried for just respite to confess
And save his soul: much respite did I grant!
Why grant me respite who deserve my doom?
Me—who engaged to play a prize, fight you,
Knowing your arms, and foil you, trick for trick,
At rapier-fence, your match and, may be, more.
I knew that if I chose sin certain sins,
Solace my lusts out of the regular way (480)
Prescribed me, I should find you in the path,
Have to try skill with a redoubted foe;
You would lunge, I would parry, and make end.
At last, occasion of a murder comes:
We cross blades, I, for all my
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