No axe sharp one side, blunt the other way,
Like what amused the town at Guido’s cost! (710)
Astræa redux! I’ve a second chance
Before the self-same Court o’ the Governor
Who soon shall see volte-face and chop, change sides!
Accordingly, I charge you on your life,
Send me with all despatch the judgment late
O’ the Florence Rota Court, confirmative
O’ the prior judgment at Arezzo, clenched
Again by the Granducal signature,
Wherein Pompilia is convicted, doomed,
And only destined to escape through flight (720)
The proper punishment. Send me the piece,—
I’ll work it! And this foul-mouthed friar shall find
His Noah’s-dove that brought the olive back,
Is turned into the other sooty scout,
The raven, Noah first of all put forth the ark,
And never came back, but ate carcasses!
No adequate machinery in law?
No power of life and death i’ the learned tongue?
Methinks I am already at my speech,
Startle the world with “Thou, Pompilia, thus? (730)
“How is the fine gold of the Temple dim!”
And so forth. But the courier bids me close,
And clip away one joke that runs through Rome,
Side by side with the sermon which I send—
How like the heartlessness of the old hunks
Arcangeli! His Count is hardly cold,
His client whom his blunders sacrificed,
When somebody must needs describe the scene—
How the procession ended at the church
That boasts the famous relic: quoth our brute, (740)
“Why, that’s just Martial’s phrase for ‘make an end’—
“Ad umbilicum sic perventum est!”
The callous dog,—let who will cut off head,
He cuts a joke, and cares no more than so!
I think my speech shall modify his mirth:
“How is the fine gold dim!”—but send the piece!
But death to all that hope? The Instrument
Is plain before me, print that ends my Book
With the definitive verdict of the Court, (750)
Dated September, six months afterward,
(Such trouble and so long, the old Pope gave!)
“In restitution of the perfect fame
“Of dead Pompilia, quondam Guido’s wife,
“And warrant to her representative
“Domenico Tighetti, barred hereby,
“While doing duty in his guardianship,
“From all molesting, all disquietude,
“Each perturbation and vexation brought
“Or threatened to be brought against the heir (760)
“By the Most Venerable Convent called
“Saint Mary Magdalen o’ the Convertites
“I’ the Corso.”
Well judged, Marc Antony, Locum-tenens
O’ the Governor, a Venturini, too!
For which I save thy name,— last of the list!
—By some accounts, on his accession-day. (770)
If he thought doubt would do the next age good,
’Tis pity he died unapprised what birth
His reign may boast of, be remembered by—
Terrible Pope, too, of a kind,—voltaire.
Never so much my eyes, I miss the mark
There lived or died that Gaetano, child
Of Guido and Pompilia: only find,
Immediately upon his father’s death,
A record in the annals of the town (780)
That Porzia, sister of our Guido, moved
The Priors of Arezzo and their head
Its Gonfalonier to give loyally
A public attestation to the right
O’ the Franceschini to men’s reverence—
Apparently because of the incident
O’ the murder,—there’s no mention made of crime,
But what else caused such urgency to cure
The mob, just then, of chronic greediness
For scandal, love of lying vanity, (790)
And appetite to swallow crude reports
That bring annoyance to their betters?—Bane
Which, here, was promptly met by antidote.
I like and shall translate the eloquence
Of nearly the worst Latin ever writ:
“Since antique time whereof the memory
“Holds the beginning, to this present hour,
“Our Franceschini ever shone, and shine,
“Still i’ the primary rank, supreme amid
“The lustres of Arezzo, proud to own (800)
“In this great family—her flag-bearer,
“Guide of her steps and guardian against foe,—
“As in the first beginning, so to- day!”
There, would you disbelieve stern History,
Trust rather to the babble of a bard?
I thought, Arezzo, thou hadst fitter souls,
Petrarch,—nay, Buonarroti at a pinch,
To do thee credit as vexillifer!
Was it mere mirth the Patavinian meant,
Making thee out, in his veracious page, (810)
Founded by Janus of the Double Face?
Our Gaetano, born of love and hate,
Did the babe live or die?—one fain would find!
What were his fancies if he grew a man?
Was he proud,—a true scion of the stock,—
Of bearing blason, shall make bright my Book—
Shield, Azure, on a Triple Mountain, Or,
A Palm-tree,
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