Chronicles and Characters By Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith): In Two Volumes |
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| I. |
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| VII. |
| VIII. | BOOK VIII.
NARRATIVE, DRAMATIC, AND LYRICAL. |
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 | Chronicles and Characters |  |
105
BOOK VIII. NARRATIVE, DRAMATIC, AND LYRICAL.
“Semper enim, ubi de spe æternitatis agitur, omnia alia contemnere
non solum licet, sed etiam expedit.”
Cardan Proxenela., cxii. 666, Elzevir edit.
107
THE DEAD POPE.
[_]
[Possibly, one of those numerous facezie, common about Rome during the ‘Ages of Faith.’ Thence, after the Reformation, it may have found its way into Germany; being there caught up, and used as a weapon of offence by the zeal of the Reformed Pulpits; which, in the vehement and clumsy handling of it, contrived (as it would seem) to convert the fool's feather into the leaden sword. Thus it reaches us at last distorted and transformed. Hence the serio-comic, half grotesque, and altogether incongruous character of it.]
I.
The whole day long had been wild and warm,
With a heavy forewarning of what was to come.
There had been, indeed, no such horrible storm
For many a year, men say, in Rome.
I remember it burst just after the close
Of the day when the dead Pope was laid in the Dome
Of St. Peter; taking his last repose,
To the grief of all good Christendom.
With a heavy forewarning of what was to come.
There had been, indeed, no such horrible storm
For many a year, men say, in Rome.
I remember it burst just after the close
Of the day when the dead Pope was laid in the Dome
Of St. Peter; taking his last repose,
To the grief of all good Christendom.
Here, before I am further gone with his story,
It is fit I should mention that, when he died,
He was of a good old age; grown hoary
In wearing the white robe, well descried
By sinner, and saint, and catechumen,
Judex gentium, mundi lumen!
Of a truth, he had sat so long in Rome,
Sat so long in Peter's chair,
Ruling the world, that he was come
To keep his power apart from care.
His hairs were few, and white
With the hoar of many years:
His eyes were filmy, and weak,
And humid, and heavy, and wan:
And all the look of the man
Was as dull, and feeble, and bleak
As the watery blunt starlight,
And thin snow, of a north March night,
When its wearied face appears
Bathed cold in a clammy grey,
Before the sluggish season clears
Earth's winter rubbish away.
Yet Winter's wine-cup cheers
The dull heart of his discontent,
While the joy of his jolly hearth endears
His home in the frosty element:
And, whatever the fretful folk may say,
This Pope was a pleasant Pope, and a gay,
For what should trouble his merriment?
There's many a text, . . . and this comes pat,
‘Dominus me lætificat,’
And ‘Filii hominum usquequo
Gravi corde?’ David, too,
Sayeth in the psalm ‘In Deo
Exultabo', also ‘meo
In corde tu lætitiam
Dedisti.’ Saith he, ‘Dormiam
In pace.’ Where's the harm of that?
So (since it is better to laugh than weep)
Leaving the wolf to look after the sheep,
Whilst ever the stormy nobles raved,
And the wickedness ran over in Rome,
And sinners, grown stout, refused to be saved,
Save now and then by a martyrdom,
He smiled, and, warming his heart with wine,
Daily, gaily quaff'd the cup.
Albeit there were some who seem'd to opine,
By their sullen faces and doggerel verses,
That the cup so quaff'd was fill'd with curses,
Averring, as their spleen dictated,
That, to claim the price of its filling up
With the much-wrong'd blood of His bruisèd Vine
The dreadful unseen Vintager waited
Aware at the gate. But we all of us know
The Devil is apt to quote Scripture so:
And what harm if still, as those famous keys
Of the double world's appointed porter,
From the good man's girdle hung at their ease,
While the days grew chillier, darker, shorter,
The cellar key in the cellar door
(More nimble than each of those rusty twins)
Daily, gaily, all the more
Made music among the vaults and bins?
It is fit I should mention that, when he died,
108
In wearing the white robe, well descried
By sinner, and saint, and catechumen,
Judex gentium, mundi lumen!
Of a truth, he had sat so long in Rome,
Sat so long in Peter's chair,
Ruling the world, that he was come
To keep his power apart from care.
His hairs were few, and white
With the hoar of many years:
His eyes were filmy, and weak,
And humid, and heavy, and wan:
And all the look of the man
Was as dull, and feeble, and bleak
As the watery blunt starlight,
And thin snow, of a north March night,
When its wearied face appears
Bathed cold in a clammy grey,
Before the sluggish season clears
Earth's winter rubbish away.
Yet Winter's wine-cup cheers
The dull heart of his discontent,
While the joy of his jolly hearth endears
His home in the frosty element:
And, whatever the fretful folk may say,
This Pope was a pleasant Pope, and a gay,
For what should trouble his merriment?
There's many a text, . . . and this comes pat,
109
And ‘Filii hominum usquequo
Gravi corde?’ David, too,
Sayeth in the psalm ‘In Deo
Exultabo', also ‘meo
In corde tu lætitiam
Dedisti.’ Saith he, ‘Dormiam
In pace.’ Where's the harm of that?
So (since it is better to laugh than weep)
Leaving the wolf to look after the sheep,
Whilst ever the stormy nobles raved,
And the wickedness ran over in Rome,
And sinners, grown stout, refused to be saved,
Save now and then by a martyrdom,
He smiled, and, warming his heart with wine,
Daily, gaily quaff'd the cup.
Albeit there were some who seem'd to opine,
By their sullen faces and doggerel verses,
That the cup so quaff'd was fill'd with curses,
Averring, as their spleen dictated,
That, to claim the price of its filling up
With the much-wrong'd blood of His bruisèd Vine
The dreadful unseen Vintager waited
Aware at the gate. But we all of us know
The Devil is apt to quote Scripture so:
And what harm if still, as those famous keys
Of the double world's appointed porter,
From the good man's girdle hung at their ease,
110
The cellar key in the cellar door
(More nimble than each of those rusty twins)
Daily, gaily, all the more
Made music among the vaults and bins?
II.
For oh, what a paradise was there,Set open by that kindly key!
Joyous, gentle, debonair,
The soul of every grape that dwells
By Tuscan slopes, o'er Umbrian dells,
Or else, where, oft, in azure air,
Round serene Parthenope
Witless wandering everywhere,
Drunken sings the sultry bee,
Or where, purpling tombs of kings,
Castel d' Aso's violet springs:
Montepulciano, the master-vine;
Chiante, that comforts the Florentine;
With many a merry-hearted wine
From Dante's own delicious vale,
Whose sweetness hangs, in odours frail
Of woods and flowers, round many a tale
Of tears, along the lordly line
Of the scornful Ghibeline,
— Dante's vale, and Love's, and mine,
The pleasant vale of the Casentine!
111
Of kingly gifts,—the choicest gain
Of terraced cities over the sea:
The fiery essence of fierce Spain,
The soul of sunburnt Sicily,
The Frankish, Rhenish, vintage, all
The purple pride of Portugal,
—Whole troops of powers celestial,
The slayers of sullen Pain!
O what spirits strong and subtle!
Whether to quicken the pulses' play,
And dance the world, like a weaver's shuttle
To and fro in the dazzling loom
Where Fancy weaves her wardrobe gay;
Or soften to faintness, sweet as the fume
From silver censers swung alway
To music, making a mellow gloom,
The too intrusive light of the day.
Some that bathe the wearied brain,
And untie the knotted hair
On the pucker'd brows of Care;
Soothe from heavy eyes the stain
Of tears too long represt; make fair
With their transcendent influence
Fate's frown; or feed with nectar-food
The lips of Longing, and dispense
To the tired soul despair'd-of good:
Others that stir in the startled blood
112
To waken the martial mood.
By the mere faint thought of it, well I wis
Such a heaven on earth were hardly amiss;
And I hold it no crime to set it in rhyme
That I think a man might pass his time
In company worse than this.
III.
But, however we pass Time, he passes still,Passing away whatever the pastime,
And, whether we use him well or ill,
Some day he gives us the slip for the last time.
Even a Pope must finish his fill,
And follow his time, be it feast time or fast time.
As it happen'd with this same Pope. No doubt
What sleep was his after that last bout,
When he could not wake! so they laid him out.
‘He is gone,’ they said, ‘where there's no returning.
Of the college who is the next to come?’
Then they set the bells tolling, the tapers burning,
And bore him up into Peter's dome.
IV.
And that day the whole world mourn'd with Rome.V.
Now, after the organ's drowning note113
And the latest loiterer, slacking his walk,
Cast one last glance at the catafalk,
And, passing the door, renew'd his talk
As to that last raid of Prince Colonna,
—‘What villages burn'd? and what hope of indemnity?’
The Beauty from Venice (or was it Verona?)
With the nimbus of red gold hair, God bless her!
And who should be the late Pope's successor?
I say—that, as soon as the crowd was gone,
And never a face remain'd in sight,
As the tapers were brightening in chapels dim,
Just about the time of the coming on
And settling down of the ghostly light,
The sudden silence so startled him
That the dead Pope rose up.
VI.
And, first, he fumbled, and stretch'd his hand,
Feeling for the accustom'd cup;
For the taste of the wine was yet in his mouth;
And, finding it not, and vext with drouth,
Feebly, as ever, he call'd out.
For a Pope . . . what need has a Pope to shout,
Whose feeblest whisper from land to land
Is echoed, east, west, and north, and south?
But, no one coming to his command,
He rubb'd his eyes, and look'd about,
And saw, thro' a swimming mist, each face
Of his predecessors, gone to Grace
Many a century ago,
Sternly staring at him so
(From their marble seats, a mournful row)
As who should say ‘Be cheerful, pray!
‘Make the best of it as you may:
We are all of us here in the same sad case:
Each in his turn, we must one by one die,
Even the best of us—
God help the rest of us!
Your turn, friend, now. Make no grimace.
Consider sic transit gloria mundi!’
Feeling for the accustom'd cup;
For the taste of the wine was yet in his mouth;
And, finding it not, and vext with drouth,
Feebly, as ever, he call'd out.
For a Pope . . . what need has a Pope to shout,
Whose feeblest whisper from land to land
Is echoed, east, west, and north, and south?
But, no one coming to his command,
He rubb'd his eyes, and look'd about,
114
Of his predecessors, gone to Grace
Many a century ago,
Sternly staring at him so
(From their marble seats, a mournful row)
As who should say ‘Be cheerful, pray!
‘Make the best of it as you may:
We are all of us here in the same sad case:
Each in his turn, we must one by one die,
Even the best of us—
God help the rest of us!
Your turn, friend, now. Make no grimace.
Consider sic transit gloria mundi!’
He began to grow aware of the place.
A settling strangeness more and more
Crept over him, never felt before,
As he stept down to the marble floor.
He look'd up, and down, above him, and under,
Fill'd with uncomfortable wonder.
What should persuade him that he was dead?
A horrible humming in the head?
A giddy lightness about the feet?
Last night's wine, and this night's heat!
Where were the Saints and Apostles, each
With the bird or beast that belongs to him,
Each on a cushion of cloud,—no film,
But solid and smooth like a pale-colour'd peach;
In a holy hurry the hand to reach
Down to him out of the glory dim
Where the multitudinous cherubim,
With wingèd heads, and wonderful eyes
Wide open, are watching in due surprise
How Heaven puts on its holiday trim
To welcome a Pope when he dies?
He could guess by the incense afloat on the air
Some service not yet so long o'er
But what he might have slept unaware,
Nor yet quite waked. What alone made him fear
Was that draperied, lighted, black thing there,
Not quite like a couch, and too much like a bier.
But anyhow ‘Wherefore linger here?’
And, pushing the heavy curtain by
That flapp'd in the portal, the windy floor
Sucking its flat hem sullenly,
He pass'd out thro' the great church door.
Crept over him, never felt before,
As he stept down to the marble floor.
He look'd up, and down, above him, and under,
Fill'd with uncomfortable wonder.
What should persuade him that he was dead?
A horrible humming in the head?
A giddy lightness about the feet?
Last night's wine, and this night's heat!
Where were the Saints and Apostles, each
With the bird or beast that belongs to him,
Each on a cushion of cloud,—no film,
115
In a holy hurry the hand to reach
Down to him out of the glory dim
Where the multitudinous cherubim,
With wingèd heads, and wonderful eyes
Wide open, are watching in due surprise
How Heaven puts on its holiday trim
To welcome a Pope when he dies?
He could guess by the incense afloat on the air
Some service not yet so long o'er
But what he might have slept unaware,
Nor yet quite waked. What alone made him fear
Was that draperied, lighted, black thing there,
Not quite like a couch, and too much like a bier.
But anyhow ‘Wherefore linger here?’
And, pushing the heavy curtain by
That flapp'd in the portal, the windy floor
Sucking its flat hem sullenly,
He pass'd out thro' the great church door.
VII.
So forth, on the vacant terrace there,Overlooking the mighty slope
Of never-ending marble stair,
'Twixt the great church and the great square,
Stood the dead Pope.
On either side glade heap'd on glade
Of colossal colonnade,
116
Recesses of repeated shade
By those stupendous columns cast;
In midst of which, as they sang and play'd,
(Fire and sound!) the fountains made
Under the low faint starlight, laid
Not far above their splendours bright,
Fresh interchange of laughters light,
Mixt with the murmur of the might
Of royal Rome which, dim in sight,
Revelling under the redness wide
Of lamps now winking from hollow and height,
With a voice of pride on every side
Lay ready to receive the night.
VIII.
Thus, all at once, and all around,The silence changed itself to sound
More horrible than mere silence is,
—The sound of a life no longer his.
Fresh terror seized him where he stood;
Or the fear that follow'd him, shifting ground,
Fresh onslaught made; and he rested afraid
To call or stir, like a sick owl, stray'd
From a witches' cave back again to the wood
Wherein, meanwhile, the noisy brood
Of little birds, with lusty voice,
Made free of his presence, begin to rejoice,
117
Those creatures, fit only to furnish him food,
Already by liberty render'd loquacious,
Picking up heart, and becoming audacious,
Should forthwith fall to pecking his eyes out.
IX.
Indeed, one might fairly surmiseFrom the noise in the streets, the shouts and cries,
That all the men and women in Rome,
From the People's Gate to St. Peter's Dome,
Tho' clad in mourning, each and all,
Were making the most of some festival:
Walking, driving, talking, striving,
Each with the rest, to do his best
To add to the tumult; each contriving
To make, in pursuit of his special joys,
Something more than the usual noise.
Since it is not every day in the week
That one Pope dies, and another's to seek.
Such an event is a thing to treasure:
For a general mourning's a general meeting,
—A sort of general grief-competing,
Which leads, of course, to a general greeting,
(Not to mention the general drinking and eating)
That is quite a general pleasure.
118
X.
The universal animation,In a word, you could hardly underrate.
So much to talk of, so much to wonder at!
The Ambassadors, first, of every nation,
Representing the whole world's tribulation,
Each of them grander than the other,
In due gradation for admiration;
How they lookt, how they spoke, what sort of speeches?
What sort of mantles, coats, collars, and breeches?
Then, the Cardinals, all in a sumptuous smother
Of piety, warm'd by the expectation
Which glow'd in the breast of each Eminent Brother
Of assuming a yet more eminent station,
—Much, he hoped, to each Eminent Brother's vexation.
And then, the Archbishops, and Bishops, and Priors,
And Abbots, and Orders of various Friars,
Treading like men that are treading on briars,
Doubtful whom, in the new race now for the State run,
They should hasten to claim as their hopeful patron.
The Nobles, too, and their Noble Families,
Prouder each than the very devil,
Yet turn'd, all at once, appallingly civil,
And masking their noble animosities
For the sake of combining further atrocities:
And, after each of the Noble Families,
Each Noble Family's faithful Following;
Who, picking their way while the crowd kept holloaing,
119
Much the same as each well-provender'd camel eyes,
In the drouthy desert, when groaning under
Their pleasing weight of public plunder,
The dainty despot boys that ride them.
A host, too, of Saints, with their special religions,
And patrons, of rival rank and station;
Which, as they pass'd, the very pigeons
On the roofs uproused in a consternation;
Being deckt in all manners of ribbons and banners,
Painted papers, and burning tapers
Enough to set in a conflagration
The world, you would think by the fume and flare of them,
And the smoky faces of those that had care of them;
All marching along with a mighty noise
Of barking dogs, and shouts, and cheers,
Brass music, and bands of singing boys,
Doing their best to split men's ears.
XI.
The excitement was certainly justifiable.The more so, if, having fairly computed
The importance, necessity, and function
Of a Pope, as divinely instituted,
You consider the fact, which is undeniable,
That, when deprived of its special pastor,
The whole of earth's flock, without compunction,
Must consider itself consign'd to disaster.
120
Could go on as it should,
Doing its duty, fair and good,
Missing no crumb of its Heavenly food,
For even a week or a day
In the absence of Heaven's Representative,
Might it not be assumed from any such tentative
Process, if this each time succeeded,
That a Pope, on the whole, is hardly needed?
And that, if it should ever befal
That Heaven might be pleased, after due delay,
Its Viceroy on earth to recall,
And abolish that post, just as good and as gay
The world would go on in the usual way
Without a Pope at all?
XII.
To this Pope however, yet upon earth,Who, tho' dead, knew what a live Pope is worth,
That sight was somewhat provoking:
Millions of men, all jostling, joking,
As merry as so many Prodigal Sons,
Having kill'd and roasted their fatted calf,
And enjoying the chance to quaff and laugh;
And yet not one of those millions
Who seem'd aware of the dead Pope there,
Or even very much to care
What had become of His Holiness,
121
Who, all the while, was nevertheless
Sole cause of the general joyousness.
This was certainly hard to bear.
His hand he raised: no man lookt to it.
His finger: not a knee was crookt to it.
He raised his voice: no man heeded it.
He gave his blessing: no man needed it.
'Twas the merest waste of benevolence,
Since the holiday went on with or without him.
He might have been to all intents
The golden Saint stuck up on the steeple,
Who is always blessing a thankless people,
Nobody caring a button about him.
Bless, or curse, neither better nor worse
For a single word that he said,
On its wonted way a world perverse
Went onward, nobody bowing the head
Either for hope, or yet for dread.
XIII.
Then the dead Pope knew that he was dead.XIV.
He walk'd onward—no man stopping him,
Ever onward—no lip dropping him
A salve: nobody making way
For the Pope to pass, as the Pope pass'd on
Thro' that rude irreverent holiday:
Till the streets behind him, one by one,
Fell off, and left him standing alone
In the mighty waste of Rome's decay.
Meanwhile, the night was coming on
Over the wide Campagna:
Hot, fierce, a blackness without form,
And in her breast she bore the storm.
Ever onward—no lip dropping him
A salve: nobody making way
122
Thro' that rude irreverent holiday:
Till the streets behind him, one by one,
Fell off, and left him standing alone
In the mighty waste of Rome's decay.
Meanwhile, the night was coming on
Over the wide Campagna:
Hot, fierce, a blackness without form,
And in her breast she bore the storm.
I never shall forget that night!
You might tell by the stifling stillness there,
And the horrible wild-beast scent on the air,
That all things were not right.
You might tell by the stifling stillness there,
And the horrible wild-beast scent on the air,
That all things were not right.
XV.
On Mount Cavi the dark was nurst,
And the Black Monks' belfry towers above:
Then, vast, the sea of vapour burst
Where forlorn Ferretian Jove
Hears only the howlet's note accurst
Mid his fallen fanes no more divine:
And from the sea to the Apennine:
And swift across the rocky line
Where the blighted moon dropp'd first
Behind Soracte, black and broad
Up the old Triumphal Road,
From Palestrino post on Rome,
Nearer, nearer, you felt It come,
The presence of the darksome Thing!
As when, dare I say, with outstretcht wing,
By some lean Prophet summon'd fast
To punish the guilt of a stiff-neckt king,
Over the desert, black in the blast,
On Babylon, or Egypt red,
The Angel of Destruction sped.
And the Black Monks' belfry towers above:
Then, vast, the sea of vapour burst
Where forlorn Ferretian Jove
Hears only the howlet's note accurst
Mid his fallen fanes no more divine:
And from the sea to the Apennine:
And swift across the rocky line
Where the blighted moon dropp'd first
Behind Soracte, black and broad
Up the old Triumphal Road,
From Palestrino post on Rome,
123
The presence of the darksome Thing!
As when, dare I say, with outstretcht wing,
By some lean Prophet summon'd fast
To punish the guilt of a stiff-neckt king,
Over the desert, black in the blast,
On Babylon, or Egypt red,
The Angel of Destruction sped.
Earth breathed not, feigning to be dead:
While the whole of Heaven overhead
Was overtaken unaware,
First here, then there, then everywhere.
Into the belly of blackness suckt,
Sank the dwindling droves of buffaloes
That spotted the extreme crimson glare:
Then the mighty darkness stronger rose,
Swallowing leagues of lurid air,
And cross'd the broken viaduct,
Flung forth in dim disorder there
Like the huge spine-bone of the skeleton
Of some dead Python, left to obstruct
The formless Night-hag's filmy path:
Thence on, by the glimmering creeks and nooks
Where the waterflats look sick and white,
Putting out quite the pallid light
Of the yellow flowers by the sulphur brooks,
That make a sullen brimstone bath
For the Nightmare's noiseless hoof:
And, leaving the quench'd-out east aloof,
The plague, from Tophet vomited,
Struck at the west, and rushing came
Right against the last red flame,
Where in cinders, now, the day,
Self-condemn'd to darkness, lay
With all his sins upon his head
Burning on a fiery bed,
Helpless, hopeless, overthrown.
While the whole of Heaven overhead
Was overtaken unaware,
First here, then there, then everywhere.
Into the belly of blackness suckt,
Sank the dwindling droves of buffaloes
That spotted the extreme crimson glare:
Then the mighty darkness stronger rose,
Swallowing leagues of lurid air,
And cross'd the broken viaduct,
Flung forth in dim disorder there
Like the huge spine-bone of the skeleton
Of some dead Python, left to obstruct
The formless Night-hag's filmy path:
Thence on, by the glimmering creeks and nooks
Where the waterflats look sick and white,
Putting out quite the pallid light
Of the yellow flowers by the sulphur brooks,
That make a sullen brimstone bath
124
And, leaving the quench'd-out east aloof,
The plague, from Tophet vomited,
Struck at the west, and rushing came
Right against the last red flame,
Where in cinders, now, the day,
Self-condemn'd to darkness, lay
With all his sins upon his head
Burning on a fiery bed,
Helpless, hopeless, overthrown.
XVI.
Now, to all the world it is well knownHow the Devil rides the wind by night:
Doing all the harm he can
In the absence of Heaven's light
To the world's well-order'd plan,
And with murrain, mildew, blight,
Or thunder blue, or hailstone white,
Marring the thrift of the honest man,
Which much doth move his spite.
XVII.
Certainly, he was out that night,
What time the fearful storm began.
For lo! on a sudden, left and right,
The heaven was gash'd from sky to sky,
Seam'd across, and sunder'd quite,
By a swift, snaky, fork-tongued flash
Of brightness intolerably bright;
As, ever, the angry Cherub, vow'd
To vengeance, fast thro' plunging cloud
Wielding wide his withering lash,
That wild horseman now pursued:
Who lurk'd, his vengeance to elude,
In deep unprobèd darkness still.
What time the fearful storm began.
For lo! on a sudden, left and right,
The heaven was gash'd from sky to sky,
125
By a swift, snaky, fork-tongued flash
Of brightness intolerably bright;
As, ever, the angry Cherub, vow'd
To vengeance, fast thro' plunging cloud
Wielding wide his withering lash,
That wild horseman now pursued:
Who lurk'd, his vengeance to elude,
In deep unprobèd darkness still.
Forthwith, the wounded night 'gan spill
Great drops: then fierce—crash crusht on crash—
As it grieved beneath each burning gash,
The darkness bellow'd; and outsprang
Wild on the plain, whilst yet it rang
With thunder, the infernal steed,
And dash'd onward at full speed,
Blind with pain, with streaming mane,
And snorting nostril on the strain,
Where, dasht from off his flanks, the rain
Thro' all the desolate abyss
Of darkness, now began to hiss.
Great drops: then fierce—crash crusht on crash—
As it grieved beneath each burning gash,
The darkness bellow'd; and outsprang
Wild on the plain, whilst yet it rang
With thunder, the infernal steed,
And dash'd onward at full speed,
Blind with pain, with streaming mane,
And snorting nostril on the strain,
Where, dasht from off his flanks, the rain
Thro' all the desolate abyss
Of darkness, now began to hiss.
XVIII.
And here (for this story is scatter'd about
The world in dozens of different shapes)
One writes . . . . Some Lutheran lean, I doubt,
Who, nameless, thus from shame escapes.
—Lies thrive and flourish by the score:
Take this for what 'tis worth, no more:—
The world in dozens of different shapes)
One writes . . . . Some Lutheran lean, I doubt,
Who, nameless, thus from shame escapes.
126
Take this for what 'tis worth, no more:—
“Out leaping from that riven rack
Of cloud, where night was boiling black,
And so escaping, as God will'd,
While, for a time, the storm was still'd,
Satan beheld the face he knew,
Amoris actus impetu.
And to the Shepherd gone astray
Grimly the black goats' Goatherd said
‘Service for service! on their way
To me full many hast thou sped:
And, since it is a stormy night,
Lest thou shouldst lose thine own way quite,
(For how shouldst thou the right way know
Who seek'st it out the first time now?)
Content am I thy guide to be.
Nor marvel that 'tis known to me,
The way to Heaven. For who but I
Makes half the ways there, that men try?
Moreover, there's no jolly sin
Which those I lead may not take in,
If they themselves can pass the gate
Whereat, of course, we separate.
For all the members of my flock
Come furnisht with Indulgences
In proper form—a goodly stock!
'Tis but to pick and chuse from these.
Paid for they are; and, signo hoc,
Well paid, if Peter will but please
That wicket to unlock.’”
Of cloud, where night was boiling black,
And so escaping, as God will'd,
While, for a time, the storm was still'd,
Satan beheld the face he knew,
Amoris actus impetu.
And to the Shepherd gone astray
Grimly the black goats' Goatherd said
‘Service for service! on their way
To me full many hast thou sped:
And, since it is a stormy night,
Lest thou shouldst lose thine own way quite,
(For how shouldst thou the right way know
Who seek'st it out the first time now?)
Content am I thy guide to be.
Nor marvel that 'tis known to me,
The way to Heaven. For who but I
Makes half the ways there, that men try?
Moreover, there's no jolly sin
Which those I lead may not take in,
If they themselves can pass the gate
Whereat, of course, we separate.
For all the members of my flock
Come furnisht with Indulgences
In proper form—a goodly stock!
127
Paid for they are; and, signo hoc,
Well paid, if Peter will but please
That wicket to unlock.’”
XIX.
A spiteful fable. Best to ownThe truth can ne'er by us be known.
But alas! for any poor ghost of a Pope
In such a night to be doom'd to grope,
Blind beneath the hideous cope
Of those black skies without a star,
For the way to where the Blessèd are!
And, if the Evil One, himself,
Was his conductor thro' the dark;
Or, if, dislodged from its sky-shelf
Some cloud was made his midnight bark;
Or if the branding bolt, that rent
The skies asunder, hew'd for him
Thro' that disfeatured firmament,
Beyond the utmost echoing brim
Of thunder-brewage, and the black
Unblissful night, some shining track
Up to the Sapphire Throne, where throng
The Voices crying ‘Lord, how long?’
While the great years are onward roll'd
With moans and mutterings manifold;
I know not, for it was not told.
128
XX.
It would seem, however, all texts agree(And this should suffice us at anyrate)
In assuming for certain that, early or late,
The dead Pope got to the Golden Gate
Where the mitred Apostle sits with the key,
—Peter, whose heir upon earth was he.
And further than this to speculate
I, for one, do not feel justified.
Tho' a fact there is, I am bound to state:
A renegade Monk avers he descried
In a vision that very night,
When the storm was spending its fiercest hate
(—And what he saw, so much the sight
Impress'd him, he wrote as soon as he woke:
—Was it a dream, or a wicked joke?)
What pass'd before That Gate.
XXI.
Now, since, after the fashion then in vogue,
He wrote it in form of a dialogue,
Not averring, as he did, the dream to be true,
In all else, as he wrote it, I write it for you:
VOICE OUTSIDE THE GATE.He wrote it in form of a dialogue,
Not averring, as he did, the dream to be true,
In all else, as he wrote it, I write it for you:
“Peter, Peter, open the Gate!
129
I know thee not. Thou knockest late.
FIRST VOICE.
Late! yet, Peter, look, and see
Who calleth.
SECOND VOICE.
Nay, I know not thee.
What art thou?
FIRST VOICE.
Peter, Peter, ope
The Gate!
SECOND VOICE.
What art thou?
FIRST VOICE.
The dead Pope.
SECOND VOICE.
The Pope? what is it?
FIRST VOICE.
In men's eye
Thy successor, late, was I.
What was thine was given to me.
130
Martyrdom and misery?
FIRST VOICE.
Nay, but power to bind and loose.
In thy name have I burn'd Jews
And heretics, and all the brood
Of unbelief . . .
VOICES FAR WITHIN.
Avenge our blood,
Lord!
FIRST VOICE.
And in thy name have blest
Kings and Emperors; confest
Earth's Spiritual Head, while there
I sat ruling in thy chair.
VOICES FAR WITHIN.
Woe! because the kings of earth
Were with her in her wicked mirth!
FIRST VOICE.
In thy name, and for thy cause,
I made peace and war, set laws
To lawgivers . . .
131
And all nations
Drunk with the abominations
Of her witchcraft!
FIRST VOICE.
In thy name,
And for thy cause, to sword and flame
I gave sinners; and to those
That fear'd the friends, and fought the foes,
Of him from all mankind selected
To keep thy name and cause respected,
Riches and rewards I gave,
And the joy beyond the grave.
VOICES FAR WITHIN.
Souls of men, too, chaffering lies,
Did she make her merchandise.
FIRST VOICE.
By all means have I upheld
Thy patrimony—nay, 'tis swell'd.
VOICES FAR WITHIN.
For herself she glcrified
In the riches of her pride.
132
Wherefore, Peter, ope the Gate!
If my knocking now be late,
Little time, in truth, had I
—I, the Pope, who stand and cry!
For other cares than those that came
Upon me, in thy cause and name,
Holding up the heavy keys
Of Heaven, and Hell.
SECOND VOICE.
If so, if these
Thou hast in keeping, wherefore me
Callest thou? Thou hast the key.
Truly thou hast waited late!
Open, then, thyself, The Gate.”
Thou hast in keeping, wherefore me
Callest thou? Thou hast the key.
Truly thou hast waited late!
Open, then, thyself, The Gate.”
And here the Monk breaks off, to state,
With befitting reflections by the way,
With what great joy the Pope, no doubt,
Soon as he heard the stern voice say
Those words, began to search about
Among his garments, for the key;
Which, strange to say, 'twould seem that he
Had not bethought him of before.
And how that joy, from more to more,
Wax'd most (the historian of his dream
Observes, as he resumes the theme)
“When, after search grown desperate,
A key he found,—just as his need
Seem'd at the worst,—a key, indeed!
But, ah vain hope! for, however the Pope
Tried the key in the fasten'd Gate,
Turning it ever with might and main
This way, that way, every way at last,
Forwards—backwards—round again—
Till his joy is turn'd to sheer dismay at last,
And his failing force will no longer cope
With the stubborn Gate,—it declines to ope.
A key, indeed! but not, alas,
The Key.”
With befitting reflections by the way,
With what great joy the Pope, no doubt,
Soon as he heard the stern voice say
Those words, began to search about
Among his garments, for the key;
Which, strange to say, 'twould seem that he
Had not bethought him of before.
And how that joy, from more to more,
Wax'd most (the historian of his dream
Observes, as he resumes the theme)
133
A key he found,—just as his need
Seem'd at the worst,—a key, indeed!
But, ah vain hope! for, however the Pope
Tried the key in the fasten'd Gate,
Turning it ever with might and main
This way, that way, every way at last,
Forwards—backwards—round again—
Till his joy is turn'd to sheer dismay at last,
And his failing force will no longer cope
With the stubborn Gate,—it declines to ope.
A key, indeed! but not, alas,
The Key.”
Who shall say what key it was?
The Monk, who here, I must believe,
Is laughing at us in his sleeve,
(Like any vulgar story-teller,
Fabling forms to vent his spleen)
Surmises that it must have been
The key of the Pope's own cellar.
The Monk, who here, I must believe,
Is laughing at us in his sleeve,
(Like any vulgar story-teller,
Fabling forms to vent his spleen)
Surmises that it must have been
The key of the Pope's own cellar.
134
THOMAS MÜNTZER TO MARTIN LUTHER.
(FROM PRISON.)
I know not if what now my spirit doth spend
This tortur'd frame's last strength in sore endeavour
To write to thee will reach thee, Luther, ever.
For I, whose crime is to have been man's friend,
No friend can claim, whose friendship's faith I may
Trust these, my life's last words, to thee to send,
After my death, which thou dost urge, men say.
I know not, Luther, if what's writ to-night
Be for thy reading, or for any man's.
'Tis as God wills. But, since His own eye scans,
And answers, in my heart, what now I write,
Still I write on, while He withholds the end.
And, setting bare my spirit in God's sight,
I summon thine to witness.
'Twere in vain
To urge the old sad difference o'er again.
Doom'd to an imminent death,—a dreadful one
In all save this,—that death, whate'er the shape
God gives it, is the event of life alone
Graced with God's last great gift to man,—escape
From men's tormenting,—I desire not now
To argue a long-talk'd theology.
How much mere knowledge with mere life may grow
Concerns not one that, being about to die,
Approaches Truth by no such process slow.
Too near death's hour of certainty am I.
But O the pity! Had we two been one!
As once we might have been: who cannot be,
Henceforth, united, till by God's clear throne
We stand together, with Heaven's eyes to see
What Earth's miss'd sadly: each, Man's champion,
And, therefore, God's! We, in this dark, abused
By the false glare of midnight watchfires, seen
Across a warring world, where all's confused,
Mistook for foes each other, who, I ween,
Are soldiers of the self-same King. And so
We fought, and, struck by thee, I fall. Each blow
Of thine, which I must pardon and deplore,
A friend's mistake! tho' fatal, Luther, more
Than if a foe had dealt it. O why, why
This woeful haste, that mars so much? See here
The sad result. For, Luther, while I die,
What ominous, incongruous faces leer
Beside thine own with laughing lip and eye?
What strange unholy helpmates share with thee
The sad bad joy of this false victory
O'er me and man? Error on error! see,
Beneath the same soil'd banner at thy side,
Hand clasping hand, grim Saxon George allied
With him of Hesse! sworn foes erewhile, tho' now
George, who would think he did God service good
Could he but rend thee limb from limb, as thou
Bids't him rend me, red with thy brother's blood,
Thy right hand holds: who clasps the other? he,
The Landgrave, who hates him, as both hate me.
And thou, the while, art hugging each red hand!
What glues so fast the fratricidal Three
Together thus? And what of such a band
The shameful central link makes Luther be?
My blood. O shame, shame, shame, my brother, shame!
Is it not sad that God such things should see,
And thou the cause? O worst disgrace of all!
That, when God asks ‘Who did this?’ men must name
Their noblest, and the blame of such deeds fall
On him whose scorn should brand them with the blame
Such deeds deserve. Error beyond recall!
Yet, think, think, Luther, and be sad 'tis so.
This tortur'd frame's last strength in sore endeavour
To write to thee will reach thee, Luther, ever.
For I, whose crime is to have been man's friend,
No friend can claim, whose friendship's faith I may
Trust these, my life's last words, to thee to send,
After my death, which thou dost urge, men say.
I know not, Luther, if what's writ to-night
Be for thy reading, or for any man's.
'Tis as God wills. But, since His own eye scans,
And answers, in my heart, what now I write,
Still I write on, while He withholds the end.
And, setting bare my spirit in God's sight,
I summon thine to witness.
'Twere in vain
To urge the old sad difference o'er again.
Doom'd to an imminent death,—a dreadful one
In all save this,—that death, whate'er the shape
135
Graced with God's last great gift to man,—escape
From men's tormenting,—I desire not now
To argue a long-talk'd theology.
How much mere knowledge with mere life may grow
Concerns not one that, being about to die,
Approaches Truth by no such process slow.
Too near death's hour of certainty am I.
But O the pity! Had we two been one!
As once we might have been: who cannot be,
Henceforth, united, till by God's clear throne
We stand together, with Heaven's eyes to see
What Earth's miss'd sadly: each, Man's champion,
And, therefore, God's! We, in this dark, abused
By the false glare of midnight watchfires, seen
Across a warring world, where all's confused,
Mistook for foes each other, who, I ween,
Are soldiers of the self-same King. And so
We fought, and, struck by thee, I fall. Each blow
Of thine, which I must pardon and deplore,
A friend's mistake! tho' fatal, Luther, more
Than if a foe had dealt it. O why, why
This woeful haste, that mars so much? See here
The sad result. For, Luther, while I die,
What ominous, incongruous faces leer
Beside thine own with laughing lip and eye?
What strange unholy helpmates share with thee
The sad bad joy of this false victory
136
Beneath the same soil'd banner at thy side,
Hand clasping hand, grim Saxon George allied
With him of Hesse! sworn foes erewhile, tho' now
George, who would think he did God service good
Could he but rend thee limb from limb, as thou
Bids't him rend me, red with thy brother's blood,
Thy right hand holds: who clasps the other? he,
The Landgrave, who hates him, as both hate me.
And thou, the while, art hugging each red hand!
What glues so fast the fratricidal Three
Together thus? And what of such a band
The shameful central link makes Luther be?
My blood. O shame, shame, shame, my brother, shame!
Is it not sad that God such things should see,
And thou the cause? O worst disgrace of all!
That, when God asks ‘Who did this?’ men must name
Their noblest, and the blame of such deeds fall
On him whose scorn should brand them with the blame
Such deeds deserve. Error beyond recall!
Yet, think, think, Luther, and be sad 'tis so.
Desirest thou man's good? I wot thou dost.
But self hath film'd thy spirit's eagle eye.
Hear him not, heed him not, since cry he must,
The flattering fiend, that in thy heart doth cry!
I hear the plausible serpent tempting Dust
To mimic God! and thou dost taste his lie,
And in the sweetness of it take delight,
Murmuring ‘Man's good! for what else have I striven,
Toil'd, dared, done battle, conquer'd? Man's good, ay!
But man's good, by my gift, to mankind given,
Not man's good, man's hereditary right.’
Hath it not oft thus whisper'd thee? and thou
Hast listen'd till it seem'd God's voice! By night,
When thoughts speak loud that scarce dare whisper low
By daylight,—when the Tempter saith his say,
And will be answer'd,—doubtless to me, too,
Would some such wandering whisper steal its way
At times, from the abyss. I thank God, who
Gave my soul strength to answer stoutly Nay,
And foil Pride's prelate-devil of his prey!
But self hath film'd thy spirit's eagle eye.
Hear him not, heed him not, since cry he must,
The flattering fiend, that in thy heart doth cry!
I hear the plausible serpent tempting Dust
To mimic God! and thou dost taste his lie,
137
Murmuring ‘Man's good! for what else have I striven,
Toil'd, dared, done battle, conquer'd? Man's good, ay!
But man's good, by my gift, to mankind given,
Not man's good, man's hereditary right.’
Hath it not oft thus whisper'd thee? and thou
Hast listen'd till it seem'd God's voice! By night,
When thoughts speak loud that scarce dare whisper low
By daylight,—when the Tempter saith his say,
And will be answer'd,—doubtless to me, too,
Would some such wandering whisper steal its way
At times, from the abyss. I thank God, who
Gave my soul strength to answer stoutly Nay,
And foil Pride's prelate-devil of his prey!
Consider, Luther . . . 'tis Paul speaks, not I . . .
How all are members of the Body of Christ:
Where were the hearing, were the body all eye?
Were it all ear, in what would sight exist?
Were all one member, where the body then?
Many the members, tho' the body is one:
One Spirit of God in many lives of men:
Can the eye say to the hand ‘Need have I none
Of thee’? or can the head say to the feet
‘I need ye not’? Nay, rather they which be
The body's feeblest members most complete
The body's being: rather those that we
Esteem least comely claim the comeliest care,
Those least in honour honour most entreat:
Since to the body these most needful are:
The weaker parts chief cherishing demand:
The limbs crave clothing—not the head, the hand.
How all are members of the Body of Christ:
Where were the hearing, were the body all eye?
Were it all ear, in what would sight exist?
Were all one member, where the body then?
Many the members, tho' the body is one:
One Spirit of God in many lives of men:
Can the eye say to the hand ‘Need have I none
Of thee’? or can the head say to the feet
‘I need ye not’? Nay, rather they which be
The body's feeblest members most complete
The body's being: rather those that we
Esteem least comely claim the comeliest care,
138
Since to the body these most needful are:
The weaker parts chief cherishing demand:
The limbs crave clothing—not the head, the hand.
What gleam'd on Corinth, in the dawn of Faith,
Is Luther blind to, in Faith's noonday blaze?
To thee, Apostle, still the Poor Man saith
The selfsame word that in the old proud days
Paul to the rich Corinthians cried. They heard,
Believed, obey'd, and blest the Preacher's word.
Is Luther blind to, in Faith's noonday blaze?
To thee, Apostle, still the Poor Man saith
The selfsame word that in the old proud days
Paul to the rich Corinthians cried. They heard,
Believed, obey'd, and blest the Preacher's word.
To Corinth God one preacher sent: to thee
A thousand preachers cry aloud, my brother.
The fetter'd foot rebukes the hand that's free.
Should not we members cherish one another?
For if one member suffereth pain or wrong
All suffer with it, and the whole frame ails:
Since each to each the bodily parts belong,
And none without his fellow's help avails
The body's use. But is it so with us?
The Rich oppress the Poor: the Strong the Weak:
The hand lops off the foot. The body, thus
Self-mutilated, suffers, and doth shriek:
But the ear hears not what the tongue doth cry,
And the hand helps not, and Shame shuts the eye!
A thousand preachers cry aloud, my brother.
The fetter'd foot rebukes the hand that's free.
Should not we members cherish one another?
For if one member suffereth pain or wrong
All suffer with it, and the whole frame ails:
Since each to each the bodily parts belong,
And none without his fellow's help avails
The body's use. But is it so with us?
The Rich oppress the Poor: the Strong the Weak:
The hand lops off the foot. The body, thus
Self-mutilated, suffers, and doth shriek:
But the ear hears not what the tongue doth cry,
And the hand helps not, and Shame shuts the eye!
I sought to heal this sickness into health:
To mitigate, not magnify, man's wrong:
For Want win justice, and give worth to Wealth:
To free the Weak, not to enslave the Strong:
Mid gifts unequal, mid unequal powers,
Secure the equal happiness of all:
Maintain God's law in this mad world of ours:
Replace the force of mere material thrall
By force of love; the old empiry of Might,
Which is imposed upon unwilling hate,
By the serene sweet sovereignties of Right,
That are accepted, and secured i' the state
Of man's free spirit, by the loyal love
Of what the soul perceives to be Above.
To mitigate, not magnify, man's wrong:
139
To free the Weak, not to enslave the Strong:
Mid gifts unequal, mid unequal powers,
Secure the equal happiness of all:
Maintain God's law in this mad world of ours:
Replace the force of mere material thrall
By force of love; the old empiry of Might,
Which is imposed upon unwilling hate,
By the serene sweet sovereignties of Right,
That are accepted, and secured i' the state
Of man's free spirit, by the loyal love
Of what the soul perceives to be Above.
I sought to attain this by no violent aids:
I preach'd not Justice from the cannon's mouth
In humble hearts, not over crownèd heads,
I claim'd dominion, and 'twas granted. Youth,
Hope's dawn-star trembling in his tear-lit eyes;
Old Age, the twilight of his toilful day
Suffused with solemn joy—like evening skies
That promise watchful shepherds a fair morn—
Brightening his grave, calm, satisfied regard;
And Womanhood—the maiden in her May,
The care-worn wife, with hungry eyes, grown hard
From grieving without hope—pale mothers, worn
With nursing breadless babes; the wan array
Of this world's weary hearts;—all these, no scorn
Could sneer to shame, no cares could keep away,
No want withhold, from Love's new-found domain.
Love shew'd his face, and was forthwith beloved!
No drop of blood was shed, no victim slain,
For love of all in each loved spirit moved,
And this man's pleasure was not that man's pain;
But in Mulhausen God saw, and approved,
The bloodless triumph that bequeath'd no stain
To Love's least soldier. And there rose on earth.
For Heavenly augury of human gain,
A glorious Form of innocent beauty and mirth,
—A little State like One large Family:
All members of one body at one birth:
And all were lowly, because all were high:
None poor: none idle: tyrant none, nor thrall:
Strong labour for the strong: light for the weak:
Labour for all: and food for all: for all
Hope that makes strong, and Reverence that makes meek,
Conscience that governs, Justice that allies,
Love that obeys, and Faith that fortifies.
I preach'd not Justice from the cannon's mouth
In humble hearts, not over crownèd heads,
I claim'd dominion, and 'twas granted. Youth,
Hope's dawn-star trembling in his tear-lit eyes;
Old Age, the twilight of his toilful day
Suffused with solemn joy—like evening skies
That promise watchful shepherds a fair morn—
Brightening his grave, calm, satisfied regard;
And Womanhood—the maiden in her May,
The care-worn wife, with hungry eyes, grown hard
From grieving without hope—pale mothers, worn
With nursing breadless babes; the wan array
Of this world's weary hearts;—all these, no scorn
Could sneer to shame, no cares could keep away,
140
Love shew'd his face, and was forthwith beloved!
No drop of blood was shed, no victim slain,
For love of all in each loved spirit moved,
And this man's pleasure was not that man's pain;
But in Mulhausen God saw, and approved,
The bloodless triumph that bequeath'd no stain
To Love's least soldier. And there rose on earth.
For Heavenly augury of human gain,
A glorious Form of innocent beauty and mirth,
—A little State like One large Family:
All members of one body at one birth:
And all were lowly, because all were high:
None poor: none idle: tyrant none, nor thrall:
Strong labour for the strong: light for the weak:
Labour for all: and food for all: for all
Hope that makes strong, and Reverence that makes meek,
Conscience that governs, Justice that allies,
Love that obeys, and Faith that fortifies.
And so, it grew, and grew: and so, I deem'd
It might grow yet—Earth's fruit of Heavenly seed!
But no! the vulture swoop'd, the eagle scream'd,
The roused hawk hunger'd, and the dove must bleed!
The banded anarchs of a brutal time
Hated us strongly, and were strong: their greed
Was made earth's god: their lust earth's law sublime:
We loved, and we were weak: that was our crime.
And where was Luther then? From town to town
Chasing grey-headed Carlstadt, his old friend:
Denouncing, persecuting, hunting down,
Down, to a noble life's disastrous end,
The man, to whom, in God's attesting name,
His solemn faith was pledged not long before:
The man he loathed because he could not tame
That old man's fearless spirit any more
To crouch to his! Or to obedience old
Scolding Melanchthon's meeker nature back.
. . . . Ah, dear Melanchthon, loved, tho' lost! How, fold
On fold, the blurr'd Past lifts its vapour black,
To let emerge those melancholy eyes
Once more, which still my wrong'd heart loves! Alack,
Love is not always just, nor Memory wise.
May truer friends forgive me, that I cease,
A moment even, to list to their loud woes!
The thought of thee o'er all things breathes sad peace:
And, for a while, in sorrowful repose
The world's vast wail is husht, to let me hear
The old sweet fluteplaying . . . . so faint, so clear!
Melanchthon, never play that flute again!
It might grow yet—Earth's fruit of Heavenly seed!
But no! the vulture swoop'd, the eagle scream'd,
The roused hawk hunger'd, and the dove must bleed!
The banded anarchs of a brutal time
Hated us strongly, and were strong: their greed
Was made earth's god: their lust earth's law sublime:
We loved, and we were weak: that was our crime.
141
Chasing grey-headed Carlstadt, his old friend:
Denouncing, persecuting, hunting down,
Down, to a noble life's disastrous end,
The man, to whom, in God's attesting name,
His solemn faith was pledged not long before:
The man he loathed because he could not tame
That old man's fearless spirit any more
To crouch to his! Or to obedience old
Scolding Melanchthon's meeker nature back.
. . . . Ah, dear Melanchthon, loved, tho' lost! How, fold
On fold, the blurr'd Past lifts its vapour black,
To let emerge those melancholy eyes
Once more, which still my wrong'd heart loves! Alack,
Love is not always just, nor Memory wise.
May truer friends forgive me, that I cease,
A moment even, to list to their loud woes!
The thought of thee o'er all things breathes sad peace:
And, for a while, in sorrowful repose
The world's vast wail is husht, to let me hear
The old sweet fluteplaying . . . . so faint, so clear!
Melanchthon, never play that flute again!
Back, heart, to Luther! Where was Luther then?
Maligning Müntzer to the magistrate:
The rich man's friend, the friendless people's foe:
With frenzied rail, rebuking hope: elate
To lift the high-born, lay the low-born low:
Now this Elector, now that Landgrave, praising:
Thro' all Thuringia preaching scorn and strife:
In every Saxon burg crusaders raising
Against the accursèd Anabaptist's life!
Maligning Müntzer to the magistrate:
The rich man's friend, the friendless people's foe:
With frenzied rail, rebuking hope: elate
To lift the high-born, lay the low-born low:
142
Thro' all Thuringia preaching scorn and strife:
In every Saxon burg crusaders raising
Against the accursèd Anabaptist's life!
Even then, the untaught patient peasant clung
To hope in justice from an unjust power.
Sharp was the cry which misery from him wrung,
But scant his asking even in that last hour.
He ask'd for leave to labour and to live,
—A free man's life and labour, not a beast's:
To honest Want what honest Wealth may give,
Wages for work: Christ's charity from Priests:
Justice from Law: and man's humanity
From Human Power. His prayer was humbly urged:
Scorn was the guerdon, outrage the reply.
With hoot and howl, the importunate wretch was scourged
From field to forest, and from moor to fen.
Then, then at last, lash'd, famisht, to its lair,
The frenzied People, raving, rent its den:
Then savageries of nature seethed and surged
In manly breasts unmann'd by mad despair:
Brute hardship brutalised the hearts of men:
And beasts of burden changed to wild beasts then.
To hope in justice from an unjust power.
Sharp was the cry which misery from him wrung,
But scant his asking even in that last hour.
He ask'd for leave to labour and to live,
—A free man's life and labour, not a beast's:
To honest Want what honest Wealth may give,
Wages for work: Christ's charity from Priests:
Justice from Law: and man's humanity
From Human Power. His prayer was humbly urged:
Scorn was the guerdon, outrage the reply.
With hoot and howl, the importunate wretch was scourged
From field to forest, and from moor to fen.
Then, then at last, lash'd, famisht, to its lair,
The frenzied People, raving, rent its den:
Then savageries of nature seethed and surged
In manly breasts unmann'd by mad despair:
Brute hardship brutalised the hearts of men:
And beasts of burden changed to wild beasts then.
Ay! then, indeed, another voice was heard:
Not mine: and stormy listeners, lured by hate,
Welcom'd the preacher of a wilder word,
With hearts whose love's last cry was strangled late.
Like rainless lightning thro' a wildwood ran
Stork's fiery utterance: where it dropp'd, it burn'd:
And all was flame. For each wrong'd heart of man
Caught fire and flared; and, flaring, backward turn'd
Before the rushing wind of ruinous Wrath,
And pour'd that glare upon a blighted Past:
And each beheld, what barr'd the backward path,
Some mighty image of a monstrous wrong
Whereon the red revengeful light was cast.
This saw his son's back bleed beneath the thong:
That other his dishonour'd bride beheld,
Or ravisht daughter: one, the hunter's throng
Trampling his thrifty field: another yell'd
‘In Leipheim bleach my boys' unburied bones!’
One saw his brother burning at the pyre:
One caught from bloody racks a comrade's groans:
One saw his father on the cross expire.
Then burst the dreadful shout, the dooming word,
And in the hand of Vengeance flash'd the sword.
Not mine: and stormy listeners, lured by hate,
143
With hearts whose love's last cry was strangled late.
Like rainless lightning thro' a wildwood ran
Stork's fiery utterance: where it dropp'd, it burn'd:
And all was flame. For each wrong'd heart of man
Caught fire and flared; and, flaring, backward turn'd
Before the rushing wind of ruinous Wrath,
And pour'd that glare upon a blighted Past:
And each beheld, what barr'd the backward path,
Some mighty image of a monstrous wrong
Whereon the red revengeful light was cast.
This saw his son's back bleed beneath the thong:
That other his dishonour'd bride beheld,
Or ravisht daughter: one, the hunter's throng
Trampling his thrifty field: another yell'd
‘In Leipheim bleach my boys' unburied bones!’
One saw his brother burning at the pyre:
One caught from bloody racks a comrade's groans:
One saw his father on the cross expire.
Then burst the dreadful shout, the dooming word,
And in the hand of Vengeance flash'd the sword.
And peace was pass'd away. To me, to all,
No choice survived, but action, and a cause
To fight for: man's oppressor, or his thrall:
The makers, or the breakers, of bad laws.
My choice was fixt, my part imposed: in me
No pause disloyal to the past allow'd.
Albeit strife's end I could not fail to see:
The certain slaughter of an unskill'd crowd,
Disaster, disappointment, death: fit ends
To false beginnings—war to vengeance vow'd,
And valour shamed by violent deeds. My friends
To fancied victory, fool'd, with blindfold eyes,
Went forth: unblinded I, to sacrifice.
No choice survived, but action, and a cause
To fight for: man's oppressor, or his thrall:
The makers, or the breakers, of bad laws.
My choice was fixt, my part imposed: in me
No pause disloyal to the past allow'd.
144
The certain slaughter of an unskill'd crowd,
Disaster, disappointment, death: fit ends
To false beginnings—war to vengeance vow'd,
And valour shamed by violent deeds. My friends
To fancied victory, fool'd, with blindfold eyes,
Went forth: unblinded I, to sacrifice.
Yet, when the Armies of the Poor display'd
The Wheel of Fortune on their ensigns borne,
Which, in the turning of her hoodwink'd head,
Turns all things upside down with captious scorn,
‘Not Chance, but Hope, be our device!’ I said,
‘For godless Fortune's gifts leave Faith forlorn,
But God's gift Hope stays fast when these be fled.’
And on the People's flag I blazon'd then
Heaven's rainy bow, first rear'd o'er rescued men.
The Wheel of Fortune on their ensigns borne,
Which, in the turning of her hoodwink'd head,
Turns all things upside down with captious scorn,
‘Not Chance, but Hope, be our device!’ I said,
‘For godless Fortune's gifts leave Faith forlorn,
But God's gift Hope stays fast when these be fled.’
And on the People's flag I blazon'd then
Heaven's rainy bow, first rear'd o'er rescued men.
Ay! tho' that banner hath been beaten down,
That symbol trampled out in streams of blood,
While this contented world without a frown
Is praising faithless peace in festal mood,
Tho' all the friends for whom I hoped are slain
Like shambled sheep, and tho' myself must die
In some few hours, that hope I still retain:
Not with the same wild moment's flashing joy
That seized my soul when, in war's desperate hour,
I stood on the hill top, and saw beneath
The all-surrounding hosts of hostile Power,
And mine own helpless sheep, ordain'd to death,
A faint and weary flock, which to devour,
The herded wolves, hoarse barking, bared sharp teeth;
While high in heaven, athwart the thunder-shower,
Even as I lifted up my voice, and cried
To God, with stretch'd expostulating hand,
Sprang forth the sudden rainbow, basing wide
O'er battle strewn about the lower land,
Storm strewn in heaven, all its aery pride,
Triumphant on the everlasting hills!
Not thus I hope. No gleam of promise thus
Visits this hour, which Heaven with darkness fills.
For men must wait. God deigns not to discuss
With our impatient and o'erweening wills
His times, and ways of working out thro' us
Heaven's slow but sure redress of human ills.
When Christ was in the garden captived, they
That, till that hour, had talk'd and walk'd beside Him,
Hoping in Him, lost hope, and fled away,
And he that knew Him best ere dawn denied Him.
What wonder? All seem'd lost, i' the very eve
Of an immortal victory. In man's sight,
All was lost. What disciple could believe
Love's triumph in Life's failure, that sad night?
But God makes light what men make dark: His fire
He frees where fall our ashes. And, because
I feel God's power, still doth my spirit aspire:
Not fearing, even now, that unjust laws
By unjust force maintain'd, rack, stake, or cord,
The sign'd conventions of convenient Wrong,
The tyrant's sceptre, or the hireling's sword,
The servile pulpit, timorous to the strong,
To the weak truculent, or custom tough,
Can crush man's rights forever, or prolong
Man's pain an hour, whene'er God cries ‘Enough!’
And for this reason, and because I think
I never cared about myself since first
I cared for man,—from whom I dare not shrink,
Not even tho' he forsake himself,—nor aught
Hath Fancy nourisht, or Ambition nurst,
That was not featured in the womb of thought
By Hope's keen contemplation of man's face;
Because I cared not ever, care not now,
Which runner's foot be fleetest in the race,
Who, at the goal, assumes to grace his brow
The garland won, who takes the upper place,
Chief at the board, when festal wine-cups flow,
So long as, at the last, the goal be gain'd,
The garland got, the general table spread;
—Whoe'er the man by whom man's aim attain'd,
Joy crowns my heart, if victory crown his head!
Luther, because 'twas thus—'tis thus—with me,
And because, gazing with intensest gaze
Round each lost field where my life's ruins be,
A gleam of hope for man, in these dark days,
—(His last, perchance, for centuries long!—) I see,
Or seem to see, i' the spirit-power which stays,
Tho' stain'd—like sunrise o'er a stormy sea
Pour'd from a clouded crag with struggling rays—
On thy firm forehead's pride,—I write to thee.
Love mankind, Luther, if thou lovest not me!
For thou, great Spirit, art full-arm'd! a soul
Clothed with strong thunder by the hand of God:
Ardent to combat, potent to control:
Gabriel's spear, John's Angel's measuring-rod,
The Cherub's flaming sword, and Michael's shield,
Were given to thee—to conquer, not to yield.
That symbol trampled out in streams of blood,
While this contented world without a frown
Is praising faithless peace in festal mood,
Tho' all the friends for whom I hoped are slain
Like shambled sheep, and tho' myself must die
In some few hours, that hope I still retain:
Not with the same wild moment's flashing joy
That seized my soul when, in war's desperate hour,
I stood on the hill top, and saw beneath
145
And mine own helpless sheep, ordain'd to death,
A faint and weary flock, which to devour,
The herded wolves, hoarse barking, bared sharp teeth;
While high in heaven, athwart the thunder-shower,
Even as I lifted up my voice, and cried
To God, with stretch'd expostulating hand,
Sprang forth the sudden rainbow, basing wide
O'er battle strewn about the lower land,
Storm strewn in heaven, all its aery pride,
Triumphant on the everlasting hills!
Not thus I hope. No gleam of promise thus
Visits this hour, which Heaven with darkness fills.
For men must wait. God deigns not to discuss
With our impatient and o'erweening wills
His times, and ways of working out thro' us
Heaven's slow but sure redress of human ills.
When Christ was in the garden captived, they
That, till that hour, had talk'd and walk'd beside Him,
Hoping in Him, lost hope, and fled away,
And he that knew Him best ere dawn denied Him.
What wonder? All seem'd lost, i' the very eve
Of an immortal victory. In man's sight,
All was lost. What disciple could believe
Love's triumph in Life's failure, that sad night?
But God makes light what men make dark: His fire
He frees where fall our ashes. And, because
I feel God's power, still doth my spirit aspire:
146
By unjust force maintain'd, rack, stake, or cord,
The sign'd conventions of convenient Wrong,
The tyrant's sceptre, or the hireling's sword,
The servile pulpit, timorous to the strong,
To the weak truculent, or custom tough,
Can crush man's rights forever, or prolong
Man's pain an hour, whene'er God cries ‘Enough!’
And for this reason, and because I think
I never cared about myself since first
I cared for man,—from whom I dare not shrink,
Not even tho' he forsake himself,—nor aught
Hath Fancy nourisht, or Ambition nurst,
That was not featured in the womb of thought
By Hope's keen contemplation of man's face;
Because I cared not ever, care not now,
Which runner's foot be fleetest in the race,
Who, at the goal, assumes to grace his brow
The garland won, who takes the upper place,
Chief at the board, when festal wine-cups flow,
So long as, at the last, the goal be gain'd,
The garland got, the general table spread;
—Whoe'er the man by whom man's aim attain'd,
Joy crowns my heart, if victory crown his head!
Luther, because 'twas thus—'tis thus—with me,
And because, gazing with intensest gaze
Round each lost field where my life's ruins be,
A gleam of hope for man, in these dark days,
147
Or seem to see, i' the spirit-power which stays,
Tho' stain'd—like sunrise o'er a stormy sea
Pour'd from a clouded crag with struggling rays—
On thy firm forehead's pride,—I write to thee.
Love mankind, Luther, if thou lovest not me!
For thou, great Spirit, art full-arm'd! a soul
Clothed with strong thunder by the hand of God:
Ardent to combat, potent to control:
Gabriel's spear, John's Angel's measuring-rod,
The Cherub's flaming sword, and Michael's shield,
Were given to thee—to conquer, not to yield.
Yield not the Devil his recaptured prey!
Conquer for all mankind! Complete thy task!
The People, thou wast sent to save and sway,
Die in the Desert: thristy lips, that ask
In vain for water! perishing feet that stray
Farther and farther from the Promist Land,
And sink 'neath weary loads along the way!
Mock not man's thirst with driblets pour'd i' the sand
From the scant leavings of Wealth's well-drain'd flask.
Cleave thou the stubborn stone with stern command.
Smite these rich rocks! The rod is in thy hand.
Conquer for all mankind! Complete thy task!
The People, thou wast sent to save and sway,
Die in the Desert: thristy lips, that ask
In vain for water! perishing feet that stray
Farther and farther from the Promist Land,
And sink 'neath weary loads along the way!
Mock not man's thirst with driblets pour'd i' the sand
From the scant leavings of Wealth's well-drain'd flask.
Cleave thou the stubborn stone with stern command.
Smite these rich rocks! The rod is in thy hand.
Thou canst. But if thou wilt not . . .
Hark! give ear
To this sad prophecy of woes to be,
A dying voice to night-winds, moaning here,
Delivers, charging them to bear to thee
The burthen of Time's melancholy song:
The Church thou buildest, scorning first to free
Life's cumber'd field for Love's foundations, long
Shall be, herself, the slave of Power: and she,
Wed to the World, not Christ, the unchristian wrong
Of worldly Force with worldly Fraud shall share,
And so wax weak by scheming to be strong;
Till there shall be on earth a sight to scare
Earth's holiest hope from human hearts away:
A Priesthood, purchased for complacent prayer,
Leagued with Earth's Pomps, for profit and for pay,
Against Heaven's Love: praisers of things that are,
Scorners of good that's not: cleaving to clay,
Strangling the spirit; purblind, unaware!
Contracting, not enlarging, day by day,
The charities of Christ, with surly care:
Till man's indignant heart shall turn away,
And chuse the champions of its faith elsewhere.
And champions shall it find. Dread champions, they!
The impatient offspring of prolong'd despair:
A prayerless, pitiless, imperious brood,
Whose battle cry shall be a cry for blood.
Hark! give ear
To this sad prophecy of woes to be,
148
Delivers, charging them to bear to thee
The burthen of Time's melancholy song:
The Church thou buildest, scorning first to free
Life's cumber'd field for Love's foundations, long
Shall be, herself, the slave of Power: and she,
Wed to the World, not Christ, the unchristian wrong
Of worldly Force with worldly Fraud shall share,
And so wax weak by scheming to be strong;
Till there shall be on earth a sight to scare
Earth's holiest hope from human hearts away:
A Priesthood, purchased for complacent prayer,
Leagued with Earth's Pomps, for profit and for pay,
Against Heaven's Love: praisers of things that are,
Scorners of good that's not: cleaving to clay,
Strangling the spirit; purblind, unaware!
Contracting, not enlarging, day by day,
The charities of Christ, with surly care:
Till man's indignant heart shall turn away,
And chuse the champions of its faith elsewhere.
And champions shall it find. Dread champions, they!
The impatient offspring of prolong'd despair:
A prayerless, pitiless, imperious brood,
Whose battle cry shall be a cry for blood.
It may come soon, come late, come once for all.
Achieve its task, and pass, content, away,
That Hour of Fate, which God to life shall call:
It may come many times, and miss its prey,
And pass, dissatisfied, to come again,
More grimly arm'd with greed of greater sway,
To rescue from more wretchedness more men:
I cannot tell. For unseen hands delay
The coming of what oft seems close in ken,
And, contrary, the moment, when we say
‘'Twill never come!’ comes on us even then.
I cannot tell the coming of that day,
If near or far, or how 'twill be, or when:
But come it will, and do its work it must,
So sure as moves God's spirit in man's dust.
Achieve its task, and pass, content, away,
That Hour of Fate, which God to life shall call:
149
And pass, dissatisfied, to come again,
More grimly arm'd with greed of greater sway,
To rescue from more wretchedness more men:
I cannot tell. For unseen hands delay
The coming of what oft seems close in ken,
And, contrary, the moment, when we say
‘'Twill never come!’ comes on us even then.
I cannot tell the coming of that day,
If near or far, or how 'twill be, or when:
But come it will, and do its work it must,
So sure as moves God's spirit in man's dust.
Men call me Prophet. And thou, too, in scorn.
Prophet I am. For grief hath made me wise.
The night's lone watchman feels far off the dawn,
And, till redress'd, all wrongs are prophecies.
This is no tortured fool's despairing curse,
No maniac menace from a murder'd man.
Luther, consider—ere man's need be worse,
If thou wilt help it, as none other can.
I claim not justice now, I do beseech
Compassion, for the Poor. To thee, to all,
I would, indeed, my dying cry might reach:
—Place for the People's Cause! in which I fall.
Prophet I am. For grief hath made me wise.
The night's lone watchman feels far off the dawn,
And, till redress'd, all wrongs are prophecies.
This is no tortured fool's despairing curse,
No maniac menace from a murder'd man.
Luther, consider—ere man's need be worse,
If thou wilt help it, as none other can.
I claim not justice now, I do beseech
Compassion, for the Poor. To thee, to all,
I would, indeed, my dying cry might reach:
—Place for the People's Cause! in which I fall.
My sands run out. What else my soul would say
Must be said shortly. And these fingers write
But ill the struggling thoughts that force their way
Thro' tortured nerves, and speak in pain's despite.
Judge if 'tis pity for myself I crave.
Luther, one woman lives that loves me: one
Whose life I'd die ten thousand deaths to save:
I have no friends, and therefore she hath none,
Save God: I cannot shield her, from the grave
To which men doom me: worse than all alone
I leave her, compass'd with a world of foes!
That is the wife whose steps with mine have gone
Faithful thro' life, tho' led from woes to woes.
I have not breathed one prayer, not made one moan
To thee for her, that's as myself, Heaven knows!
Much less for this least self, that's soon to die;
Tho' it hath suffer'd somewhat. Thrice they bound
This body to their rack. Thou wast not by.
Thy friends were. Each dictated some fresh wound,
And all applauded. Let that pass. For man,
Not for myself, I end, as I began,
This letter, and this life.
With failing force,
But not with fainting faith, I lift the cry
That speeds my spirit on its sunward course
Beyond Death's night. And, as I lived, I die,
Man's friend; imploring—tho' it be in vain—
From thee, from all—man's pity for man's pain!
Must be said shortly. And these fingers write
150
Thro' tortured nerves, and speak in pain's despite.
Judge if 'tis pity for myself I crave.
Luther, one woman lives that loves me: one
Whose life I'd die ten thousand deaths to save:
I have no friends, and therefore she hath none,
Save God: I cannot shield her, from the grave
To which men doom me: worse than all alone
I leave her, compass'd with a world of foes!
That is the wife whose steps with mine have gone
Faithful thro' life, tho' led from woes to woes.
I have not breathed one prayer, not made one moan
To thee for her, that's as myself, Heaven knows!
Much less for this least self, that's soon to die;
Tho' it hath suffer'd somewhat. Thrice they bound
This body to their rack. Thou wast not by.
Thy friends were. Each dictated some fresh wound,
And all applauded. Let that pass. For man,
Not for myself, I end, as I began,
This letter, and this life.
With failing force,
But not with fainting faith, I lift the cry
That speeds my spirit on its sunward course
Beyond Death's night. And, as I lived, I die,
Man's friend; imploring—tho' it be in vain—
From thee, from all—man's pity for man's pain!
151
ADOLPHUS, DUKE OF GUELDERS.
(FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH CENTURIES.)
Adolphus, Duke of Guelders, having died,
Was laid in pomp for men to see. Priests vied
With soldiers, which the most should honour him.
Borne on broad shoulders through the streets, with hymn
And martial music, the dead Duke in state
Reach'd Tournay. There they laid him in the great
Cathedral, where perpetual twilight dwells,
Misty with scents from silver thuribles;
Since it seems fitting that, where dead kings sleep,
The sacred air, by pious aids, should keep
A certain indistinctness faint and fine,
To awe the vulgar mind, and with divine
Solemnities of silence, and soft glooms,
Inspire due reverence around royal tombs.
So, in the great Cathedral, grand, he lay.
Was laid in pomp for men to see. Priests vied
With soldiers, which the most should honour him.
Borne on broad shoulders through the streets, with hymn
And martial music, the dead Duke in state
Reach'd Tournay. There they laid him in the great
Cathedral, where perpetual twilight dwells,
Misty with scents from silver thuribles;
Since it seems fitting that, where dead kings sleep,
The sacred air, by pious aids, should keep
A certain indistinctness faint and fine,
To awe the vulgar mind, and with divine
Solemnities of silence, and soft glooms,
Inspire due reverence around royal tombs.
So, in the great Cathedral, grand, he lay.
The Duke had gain'd his Dukedom in this way:
Once, on a winter night, . . . these things were written
Four centuries ago, when men, frost-bitten,
Blew on their nails, and curst, to warm their blood,
The times, the taxes, and what else they could, . . .
A hungry, bleak night sky, with frosty fires
Hung hard, and clipt with cold the chilly spires,
Bent, for some hateful purpose of its own,
To keep sharp watch upon the little town,
Which huddled in its shadow, as if there
'Twas safest, trying to look unaware;
Earth gave it no assistance, and small cheer,
'Neath that sharp sky, resolved to interfere
For its affliction, but lockt up her hand,
Stared fiercely on man's need, and his command
Rejected, cold as kindness when it cools,
Or charity in some men's souls. The pools
And water-courses had become dead streaks
Of steely ice. The rushes in the creeks
Stood stiff as iron spikes. The sleety breeze,
Itself, had died for lack of aught to tease
On the gaunt oaks, or pine-trees numb'd and stark.
All fires were out, and every casement dark
Along the flinty streets. A famisht mouse,
Going his rounds in some old dismal house,
Disconsolate (for since the last new tax
The mice began to gnaw each other's backs),
Seem'd the sole creature stirring; save, perchance,
With steel glove slowly freezing to his lance,
A sullen watchman, half asleep, who stept
About the turret where the old Duke slept.
Once, on a winter night, . . . these things were written
Four centuries ago, when men, frost-bitten,
Blew on their nails, and curst, to warm their blood,
The times, the taxes, and what else they could, . . .
152
Hung hard, and clipt with cold the chilly spires,
Bent, for some hateful purpose of its own,
To keep sharp watch upon the little town,
Which huddled in its shadow, as if there
'Twas safest, trying to look unaware;
Earth gave it no assistance, and small cheer,
'Neath that sharp sky, resolved to interfere
For its affliction, but lockt up her hand,
Stared fiercely on man's need, and his command
Rejected, cold as kindness when it cools,
Or charity in some men's souls. The pools
And water-courses had become dead streaks
Of steely ice. The rushes in the creeks
Stood stiff as iron spikes. The sleety breeze,
Itself, had died for lack of aught to tease
On the gaunt oaks, or pine-trees numb'd and stark.
All fires were out, and every casement dark
Along the flinty streets. A famisht mouse,
Going his rounds in some old dismal house,
Disconsolate (for since the last new tax
The mice began to gnaw each other's backs),
Seem'd the sole creature stirring; save, perchance,
With steel glove slowly freezing to his lance,
A sullen watchman, half asleep, who stept
About the turret where the old Duke slept.
The young Duke, whom a waking thought, not new,
Had held from sleeping, the last night or two,
Consider'd he should sleep the better there,
Provided that the old Duke slept elsewhere.
Therefore, (about four hundred years ago,
This point was settled by the young Duke so,)
Adolphus—the last Duke of Egmont's race
Who reign'd in Guelders, after whom the place
Lapsed into Burgundian line—put on
His surcoat, buckled fast his habergeon,
Went clinking up that turret stairway, came
To the turret chamber, whose dim taper flame
The gust that enter'd with him soon smote dead,
And found his father, sleeping in his bed
As sound as, just four hundred years ago,
Good Dukes and Kings were wont to sleep, you know.
153
Consider'd he should sleep the better there,
Provided that the old Duke slept elsewhere.
Therefore, (about four hundred years ago,
This point was settled by the young Duke so,)
Adolphus—the last Duke of Egmont's race
Who reign'd in Guelders, after whom the place
Lapsed into Burgundian line—put on
His surcoat, buckled fast his habergeon,
Went clinking up that turret stairway, came
To the turret chamber, whose dim taper flame
The gust that enter'd with him soon smote dead,
And found his father, sleeping in his bed
As sound as, just four hundred years ago,
Good Dukes and Kings were wont to sleep, you know.
A meagre moon, malignant as could be,
Meanwhile made stealthy light enough to see
The way by to the bedside, and put out
A hand, too eager long to grope about
For what it sought. A moment after that,
The old Duke, wide awake and shuddering, sat
Stark upright in the moon; his thin grey hair
Pluckt out by handfuls; and that stony stare,
The seal which terror fixes on surprise,
Widening within the white and filmy eyes
With which the ghastly father gazed upon
Strange meanings in the grim face of the son.
The young Duke haled the old Duke by the hair
Thus, in his nightgear, down the turret stair;
And made him trot, barefooted, on before
Himself, who rode a horseback, thro' the frore
And aching midnight, over frozen wold,
And icy meer. (That winter, you might hold
A hundred fairs, and roast a hundred sheep,
If you could find them, on the ice, so deep
The frost had fixt his floors on driven piles.)
From Grave to Buren, five and twenty miles,
The young Duke hunted thro' the hollow night
The old Duke, like a phantom, flitting white
Thro' darkness into darkness, and the den
Where great men falling are forgot by men.
There in a dungeon, where newts dwell, beneath
The tower of Buren Castle, until death
Took him, he linger'd very miserably;
Some say for months; some, years. Tho' Burgundy
Summon'd both son and father to appear
Before him, ere the end of that same year,
And sought to settle, after mild rebuke,
Some sort of compromise between the Duke
And the Duke's father. But it fail'd.
This way
The Duke had gain'd his Dukedom.
At Tournay,
Afterwards, in the foray on that town,
He fell; and, being a man of much renown,
And very noble, with befitting state,
Was royally interr'd within the great
Cathedral. There, with work of costly stones
And curious craft, above his ducal bones
They builded a fair tomb. And over him
A hundred priests chanted the holy hymn.
Which being ended, . . . “Our archbishop” (says
A chronicler, writing about those days)
“Held a most sweet discourse.” . . . . And so, the psalm
And silver organ ceasing, in his calm
And costly tomb they left him; with his face,
Turn'd ever upward to the altar-place,
Smiling in marble from the shrine below.
Meanwhile made stealthy light enough to see
The way by to the bedside, and put out
A hand, too eager long to grope about
For what it sought. A moment after that,
The old Duke, wide awake and shuddering, sat
Stark upright in the moon; his thin grey hair
Pluckt out by handfuls; and that stony stare,
The seal which terror fixes on surprise,
Widening within the white and filmy eyes
With which the ghastly father gazed upon
Strange meanings in the grim face of the son.
154
Thus, in his nightgear, down the turret stair;
And made him trot, barefooted, on before
Himself, who rode a horseback, thro' the frore
And aching midnight, over frozen wold,
And icy meer. (That winter, you might hold
A hundred fairs, and roast a hundred sheep,
If you could find them, on the ice, so deep
The frost had fixt his floors on driven piles.)
From Grave to Buren, five and twenty miles,
The young Duke hunted thro' the hollow night
The old Duke, like a phantom, flitting white
Thro' darkness into darkness, and the den
Where great men falling are forgot by men.
There in a dungeon, where newts dwell, beneath
The tower of Buren Castle, until death
Took him, he linger'd very miserably;
Some say for months; some, years. Tho' Burgundy
Summon'd both son and father to appear
Before him, ere the end of that same year,
And sought to settle, after mild rebuke,
Some sort of compromise between the Duke
And the Duke's father. But it fail'd.
This way
The Duke had gain'd his Dukedom.
At Tournay,
Afterwards, in the foray on that town,
He fell; and, being a man of much renown,
155
Was royally interr'd within the great
Cathedral. There, with work of costly stones
And curious craft, above his ducal bones
They builded a fair tomb. And over him
A hundred priests chanted the holy hymn.
Which being ended, . . . “Our archbishop” (says
A chronicler, writing about those days)
“Held a most sweet discourse.” . . . . And so, the psalm
And silver organ ceasing, in his calm
And costly tomb they left him; with his face,
Turn'd ever upward to the altar-place,
Smiling in marble from the shrine below.
These things were done four hundred years ago,
Adolphus, Duke of Guelders, in this way
First having gain'd his Dukedom, as I say.
After which time, the great Duke Charles the Bold
Laid hold on Guelders, and kept fast his hold.
Times change: and with the times too change the men.
A hundred years have roll'd away since then.
I mean, since “Our archbishop” sweetly preach'd
His sermon on the dead Duke, unimpeach'd
Of flattery in the fluent phrase that just
Tinkled the tender moral o'er the dust
Of greatness, and with flowers of Latin strew'd,
To edify a reverent multitude,
The musty surface of the faded theme
“All flesh is grass: man's days are but a dream.”
A bad dream, surely, sometimes: waking yet
Too late deferr'd! Such honours to upset,
Such wrongs to right, such far truths to attain,
Time, tho' he toils along the road amain,
Is still behindhand; never quite gets thro'
The long arrears of work he finds to do.
You call Time swift? it costs him centuries
To move the least of human miseries
Out of the path he treads. You call Time strong?
He does not dare to smite an obvious wrong
Aside, until 'tis worn too weak to stand
The faint dull pressure of his feeble hand.
The crazy wrong, and yet how safe it thrives!
The little lie, and yet how long it lives!
Meanwhile, I say, a hundred years have roll'd
O'er the Duke's memory.
Adolphus, Duke of Guelders, in this way
First having gain'd his Dukedom, as I say.
After which time, the great Duke Charles the Bold
Laid hold on Guelders, and kept fast his hold.
Times change: and with the times too change the men.
A hundred years have roll'd away since then.
I mean, since “Our archbishop” sweetly preach'd
His sermon on the dead Duke, unimpeach'd
Of flattery in the fluent phrase that just
Tinkled the tender moral o'er the dust
Of greatness, and with flowers of Latin strew'd,
To edify a reverent multitude,
The musty surface of the faded theme
156
A bad dream, surely, sometimes: waking yet
Too late deferr'd! Such honours to upset,
Such wrongs to right, such far truths to attain,
Time, tho' he toils along the road amain,
Is still behindhand; never quite gets thro'
The long arrears of work he finds to do.
You call Time swift? it costs him centuries
To move the least of human miseries
Out of the path he treads. You call Time strong?
He does not dare to smite an obvious wrong
Aside, until 'tis worn too weak to stand
The faint dull pressure of his feeble hand.
The crazy wrong, and yet how safe it thrives!
The little lie, and yet how long it lives!
Meanwhile, I say, a hundred years have roll'd
O'er the Duke's memory.
Now, again behold!
Late gleams of dwindled daylight, glad to go:
A sullen autumn evening, scowling low
On Tournay: a fierce sunset, dying down
In clots of crimson fire, reminds a town
Of starving, stormy people, how the glare
Sunk into eyes of agonised despair,
When placid pastors of the flock of Christ
Had finish'd roasting their last Calvinist.
A hot and lurid night is steaming up,
Like a foul film out of some witch's cup,
That swarms with devils spawn'd from her damn'd charms.
For the red light of burning burgs and farms
Oozes all round, beneath the lock'd black lids
Of heaven. Something on the air forbids
A creature to feel happy, or at rest.
The night is cursed, and carries in her breast
A guilty conscience. Strange, too! since of late
The Church is busy, putting all things straight,
And taking comfortable care to keep
The fold snug, and all prowlers from the sheep.
To which good end, upon this self-same night,
A much dismay'd Town Council has thought right
To set a Guard of Terror round about
The great Cathedral; fearing lest a rout
Of these misguided creatures, prone to sin,
As lately proven, should break rudely in
There, where Adolphus, Duke of Guelders, and
Other dead dukes, by whom this happy land
Was once kept quiet in good times gone by,
With saints and bishops sleeping quietly,
Enjoy at last the slumber of the just;
In marble; mixing not their noble dust
With common clay of the inferior dead.
Therefore you hear, with moody measured tread,
This Guard of Terror going its grim watch,
Thro' ominous silence. Scarce sufficient match,
However, even for a hundred lean
Starved wretches, lasht to madness, having seen
Somewhat too long, or too unworthily look'd
Upon, their vile belongings being cook'd
To suit each priestly palate. . . . If to-night
Those mad dogs slip the muzzle, 'ware their bite!
A sullen autumn evening, scowling low
On Tournay: a fierce sunset, dying down
In clots of crimson fire, reminds a town
Of starving, stormy people, how the glare
Sunk into eyes of agonised despair,
When placid pastors of the flock of Christ
Had finish'd roasting their last Calvinist.
A hot and lurid night is steaming up,
157
That swarms with devils spawn'd from her damn'd charms.
For the red light of burning burgs and farms
Oozes all round, beneath the lock'd black lids
Of heaven. Something on the air forbids
A creature to feel happy, or at rest.
The night is cursed, and carries in her breast
A guilty conscience. Strange, too! since of late
The Church is busy, putting all things straight,
And taking comfortable care to keep
The fold snug, and all prowlers from the sheep.
To which good end, upon this self-same night,
A much dismay'd Town Council has thought right
To set a Guard of Terror round about
The great Cathedral; fearing lest a rout
Of these misguided creatures, prone to sin,
As lately proven, should break rudely in
There, where Adolphus, Duke of Guelders, and
Other dead dukes, by whom this happy land
Was once kept quiet in good times gone by,
With saints and bishops sleeping quietly,
Enjoy at last the slumber of the just;
In marble; mixing not their noble dust
With common clay of the inferior dead.
Therefore you hear, with moody measured tread,
This Guard of Terror going its grim watch,
Thro' ominous silence. Scarce sufficient match,
However, even for a hundred lean
158
Somewhat too long, or too unworthily look'd
Upon, their vile belongings being cook'd
To suit each priestly palate. . . . If to-night
Those mad dogs slip the muzzle, 'ware their bite!
And so, perchance, the thankless people thought:
For, as the night wore off, a much-distraught
And murmurous crowd came thronging wild to where,
I' the market-place, each stifled thoroughfare
Disgorges its pent populace about
The great Cathedral.
Suddenly, a shout,
As tho' Hell's brood had broken loose, rock'd all
Heaven's black roof dismal and funereal.
As when a spark is dropt into a train
Of nitre, swiftly ran from brain to brain
A single fiery purpose, and at last
Exploded, roaring down the vague and vast
Heart of the shaken city. Then a swell
Of wrathful faces, irresistible,
Sweeps to the great Cathedral doors; disarms
The Guard; roars up the hollow nave; and swarms
Thro' aisle and chancel, fast as locusts sent
Thro' Egypt's chambers thick and pestilent.
For, as the night wore off, a much-distraught
And murmurous crowd came thronging wild to where,
I' the market-place, each stifled thoroughfare
Disgorges its pent populace about
The great Cathedral.
Suddenly, a shout,
As tho' Hell's brood had broken loose, rock'd all
Heaven's black roof dismal and funereal.
As when a spark is dropt into a train
Of nitre, swiftly ran from brain to brain
A single fiery purpose, and at last
Exploded, roaring down the vague and vast
Heart of the shaken city. Then a swell
Of wrathful faces, irresistible,
Sweeps to the great Cathedral doors; disarms
The Guard; roars up the hollow nave; and swarms
Thro' aisle and chancel, fast as locusts sent
Thro' Egypt's chambers thick and pestilent.
There, such a sight was seen, as, now and then,
When half a world goes mad, makes sober men
In after years, who comfortably sit
In easy chairs to weigh and ponder it,
Revise the various theories of mankind,
Puzzling both others and themselves, to find
New reasons for unreasonable old wrongs.
When half a world goes mad, makes sober men
159
In easy chairs to weigh and ponder it,
Revise the various theories of mankind,
Puzzling both others and themselves, to find
New reasons for unreasonable old wrongs.
Yells, howlings, cursings; grim tumultuous throngs;
The metamorphoses of mad despair:
Men with wolves' faces, women with fierce hair
And frenzied eyes, turn'd furies: over all
The torchlight tossing in perpetual
Pulsation of tremendous glare or gloom.
They climb, they cling from altar-piece and tomb;
Whilst pickaxe, crowbar, pitchfork, billet, each
Chance weapon caught within the reckless reach
Of those whose single will a thousand means
Subserve to (terrible, wild kings and queens
Whose sole dominions are despairs), thro' all
The marble monuments majestical
Go crashing. Basalt, lapis, syenite,
Porphyry, and pediment, in splinters bright,
Tumbled with claps of thunder, clattering
Roll down the dark. The surly sinners sing
A horrible black santis, so to cheer
The work in hand. And evermore you hear
A shout of awful joy, as down goes some
Three-hundred-years-old treasure. Crowded, come
To glut the greatening bonfire, chalices
Of gold and silver, copes and cibories,
Stain'd altar-cloths, spoil'd pictures, ornaments,
Statues, and broken organ tubes and vents,
The spoils of generations all destroy'd
In one wild moment! Possibly grown cloy'd
And languid, then a lean iconoclast,
Drooping a sullen eyelid, fell at last
To reading lazily the letters graven
Around the royal tomb, red porphyry-paven,
Black-pillar'd, snowy-slabb'd, and sculptured fair,
He sat on, listless, with spiked elbows bare.
When (suddenly inspired with some new hate
To yells, the hollow roofs reverberate
As tho' the Judgment-Angel pass'd among
Their rafters, and the great beams clang'd and rung
Against his griding wing) he shrieks: “Come forth,
Adolphus, Duke of Guelders! for thy worth
Should not be hidden.” Forthwith, all men shout,
“Strike, split, crash, dig, and drag the tyrant out!
Let him be judged!” And from the drowsy, dark,
Enormous aisles, a hundred echoes bark
And bellow—“Judged!”
Then those dread lictors all,
Marching before the magisterial
Curule of tardy Time, with rod and axe,
Fall to their work. The cream-white marble cracks,
The lucid alabaster flies in flakes,
The iron bindings burst, the brickwork quakes
Beneath their strokes, and the great stone lid shivers
With thunder on the pavement. A torch quivers
Over the yawning vault. The vast crowd draws
Its breath back hissing. In that sultry pause
A man o'erstrides the tomb, and drops beneath;
Another; then another. Still its breath
The crowd holds, hushful. At the last appears,
Unravaged by a hundred wicked years,
Borne on broad shoulders from the tomb to which
Broad shoulders bore him; coming, in his rich
Robes of magnificence (by sweating thumbs
Of savage artisans,—as each one comes
To stare into his dead face,—smeared and smudged),
Adolphus, Duke of Guelders, . . . to be Judged!
The metamorphoses of mad despair:
Men with wolves' faces, women with fierce hair
And frenzied eyes, turn'd furies: over all
The torchlight tossing in perpetual
Pulsation of tremendous glare or gloom.
They climb, they cling from altar-piece and tomb;
Whilst pickaxe, crowbar, pitchfork, billet, each
Chance weapon caught within the reckless reach
Of those whose single will a thousand means
Subserve to (terrible, wild kings and queens
Whose sole dominions are despairs), thro' all
The marble monuments majestical
Go crashing. Basalt, lapis, syenite,
Porphyry, and pediment, in splinters bright,
Tumbled with claps of thunder, clattering
Roll down the dark. The surly sinners sing
A horrible black santis, so to cheer
The work in hand. And evermore you hear
A shout of awful joy, as down goes some
Three-hundred-years-old treasure. Crowded, come
To glut the greatening bonfire, chalices
160
Stain'd altar-cloths, spoil'd pictures, ornaments,
Statues, and broken organ tubes and vents,
The spoils of generations all destroy'd
In one wild moment! Possibly grown cloy'd
And languid, then a lean iconoclast,
Drooping a sullen eyelid, fell at last
To reading lazily the letters graven
Around the royal tomb, red porphyry-paven,
Black-pillar'd, snowy-slabb'd, and sculptured fair,
He sat on, listless, with spiked elbows bare.
When (suddenly inspired with some new hate
To yells, the hollow roofs reverberate
As tho' the Judgment-Angel pass'd among
Their rafters, and the great beams clang'd and rung
Against his griding wing) he shrieks: “Come forth,
Adolphus, Duke of Guelders! for thy worth
Should not be hidden.” Forthwith, all men shout,
“Strike, split, crash, dig, and drag the tyrant out!
Let him be judged!” And from the drowsy, dark,
Enormous aisles, a hundred echoes bark
And bellow—“Judged!”
Then those dread lictors all,
Marching before the magisterial
Curule of tardy Time, with rod and axe,
Fall to their work. The cream-white marble cracks,
The lucid alabaster flies in flakes,
The iron bindings burst, the brickwork quakes
161
With thunder on the pavement. A torch quivers
Over the yawning vault. The vast crowd draws
Its breath back hissing. In that sultry pause
A man o'erstrides the tomb, and drops beneath;
Another; then another. Still its breath
The crowd holds, hushful. At the last appears,
Unravaged by a hundred wicked years,
Borne on broad shoulders from the tomb to which
Broad shoulders bore him; coming, in his rich
Robes of magnificence (by sweating thumbs
Of savage artisans,—as each one comes
To stare into his dead face,—smeared and smudged),
Adolphus, Duke of Guelders, . . . to be Judged!
And then, and there, in that strange judgment-hall,
As, gathering round their royal criminal,
Troopt the wild jury, the dead Duke was found
To be as fresh in face, in flesh as sound,
As tho' he had been buried yesterday;
So well the embalmer's work from all decay
Had kept his royal person. With his great
Grim truncheon propt on hip, his robe of state
Heap'd in vast folds his large-built limbs around,
The Duke lay, looking as in life; and frown'd
A frown that seem'd as of a living man.
As, gathering round their royal criminal,
Troopt the wild jury, the dead Duke was found
To be as fresh in face, in flesh as sound,
As tho' he had been buried yesterday;
So well the embalmer's work from all decay
Had kept his royal person. With his great
Grim truncheon propt on hip, his robe of state
Heap'd in vast folds his large-built limbs around,
The Duke lay, looking as in life; and frown'd
A frown that seem'd as of a living man.
Meanwhile those judges their assize began.
And, having, in incredibly brief time,
Decided that in nothing save his crime
The Duke exceeded mere humanity,
Free, for the first time, its own cause to try,
So long ignored,—they peeled him, limb by limb,
Bare of the mingled pomps that mantled him;
Stript, singed him, stabb'd him, stampt upon him, smote
His cheek, and spat upon it, slit his throat,
Crusht his big brow, and clove his crown, and left
Adolphus, Guelders' last own Duke, bereft
Of sepulture, and naked, on the floor
Of the Cathedral. Where, six days, or more,
He rested, rotting. What remain'd, indeed,
After the rats had had their daily feed,
Of the great Duke, some unknown hand, 'tis said,
In the town cesspool, last, deposited.
162
Decided that in nothing save his crime
The Duke exceeded mere humanity,
Free, for the first time, its own cause to try,
So long ignored,—they peeled him, limb by limb,
Bare of the mingled pomps that mantled him;
Stript, singed him, stabb'd him, stampt upon him, smote
His cheek, and spat upon it, slit his throat,
Crusht his big brow, and clove his crown, and left
Adolphus, Guelders' last own Duke, bereft
Of sepulture, and naked, on the floor
Of the Cathedral. Where, six days, or more,
He rested, rotting. What remain'd, indeed,
After the rats had had their daily feed,
Of the great Duke, some unknown hand, 'tis said,
In the town cesspool, last, deposited.
“Et, comme ecrit Philippe de Comines (qui mêsmes a été employé en ce different par le Due Charles de Bourgongne) le dit Adolph alla de nuict en plein hyver prendre son vieux pere hors du lict, et lui fit faire pieds nus cincq lieues de chemin, et le detint six mois prisonier en une profonde et obscure prison — Le Due Charles de Bourgongne tacha par plusieurs fois de reconcilier le pere et le fils, mais en vain — sur quoy le fils repondit qu'il aymoit mieux jêter son pere en un puits, et s'y precipiter apres luy que de consentir à un tel accord, disant que son pere avoit gouverné 44 ans, et que partant il estoit maintenant temps qu'il gouvernait aussi quelque peu.”—D. Emanuel V. Meteren. Traduict de Flamend en Francoys par I. D. L. Haye 1618.
“Il alla vers Tournay, où il fut tué par les Francais en une escarmouche, non obstant qu'il ne fit que crier Gueldre! Gueldre! ce qui luy arriva selon le juste jugement de Dieu pour sa grande rebellion.”—Ibid, Fol. 9.
163
THE DUKE'S LABORATORY.
(A SCENE FROM FLORENCE IN THE SIXTEEENTH CENTURY. )
- Francesco dei Medici. Grand Duke of Florence.
- Paolo Giordano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano. The Grand Duke's Brother-in-law.
- Fra Luke. The Grand Duke's Alchemist.
Persons represented.
FRA LUKE.
Another moment, and 'tis finisht! Ha,
The white precipitate begins to form!
We'll set thee there, Death's Angel. Presently
Thou shalt be sphered.
The white precipitate begins to form!
We'll set thee there, Death's Angel. Presently
Thou shalt be sphered.
164
Good ignorant folks believe
The art of kingcraft's writ in histories
By sages, conn'd from chronicles, and shaped
I' the council chamber. Fools! that wicked craft
Lies hidden here. And who would study it
Must be content to soil his hands . . . like these!
(That stain hath never come away—nor will.
And now the story that it tells is old
As the new fortunes of this House!) . . . must soil
His hands, I say, as these be soil'd, and make
That sort of surgeon's needle of his mind
Which may go thro' the bloody matter cramm'd
Into these murtherous manuals of death;
Wherein some monk, among his crucibles,
Hath noted down how such and such an one,
That plotted, prosper'd, sinn'd, and still slept sound.
Displeased a Prince on such and such a day,
And presently men miss'd him: such a lady,
With eyes so lustrous dark, and lips so red,
Wore roses in her bosom at the ball,
On such a night, and whisper'd one that smiled
Beside her for a moment in the dance,
‘To-morrow I await thee,’ then went home
Happy, and slept, and never waked: or how
On such a day the Conte de Virtù
Poison'd his uncle in a dish of beans,
With something in the salt,—which some surmise,
Erroneously, white hellebore, but he
That writes hath proved it arsenic. This, at least,
Is policy in the school of Cosimo!
The art of kingcraft's writ in histories
By sages, conn'd from chronicles, and shaped
I' the council chamber. Fools! that wicked craft
Lies hidden here. And who would study it
Must be content to soil his hands . . . like these!
(That stain hath never come away—nor will.
And now the story that it tells is old
As the new fortunes of this House!) . . . must soil
His hands, I say, as these be soil'd, and make
That sort of surgeon's needle of his mind
Which may go thro' the bloody matter cramm'd
Into these murtherous manuals of death;
Wherein some monk, among his crucibles,
Hath noted down how such and such an one,
That plotted, prosper'd, sinn'd, and still slept sound.
Displeased a Prince on such and such a day,
And presently men miss'd him: such a lady,
With eyes so lustrous dark, and lips so red,
Wore roses in her bosom at the ball,
On such a night, and whisper'd one that smiled
Beside her for a moment in the dance,
‘To-morrow I await thee,’ then went home
Happy, and slept, and never waked: or how
On such a day the Conte de Virtù
Poison'd his uncle in a dish of beans,
With something in the salt,—which some surmise,
Erroneously, white hellebore, but he
165
Is policy in the school of Cosimo!
And, night by night, I, sitting here, hatch death
For this detested race, whose badge I wear,
—The better to destroy them! who, for this,
Deem me their servant . . . me, pale, patient slave
Of one sublime Idea, that, sitting throned
At God's right hand, looks down and laughs at kings,
While the slow hours lead on her destined day,
The Nemesis of History! me, whose back
Is bent to this, by culling bitter herbs
To swell this scum, till it boil o'er, and purge
The rising cauldron of the wrath of God!
For this detested race, whose badge I wear,
—The better to destroy them! who, for this,
Deem me their servant . . . me, pale, patient slave
Of one sublime Idea, that, sitting throned
At God's right hand, looks down and laughs at kings,
While the slow hours lead on her destined day,
The Nemesis of History! me, whose back
Is bent to this, by culling bitter herbs
To swell this scum, till it boil o'er, and purge
The rising cauldron of the wrath of God!
O thou, my martyr'd brother, sainted soul,
Dear murder'd ghost, that, unavenged, criest out
To shame Heaven's silence,—Fra Girolamo!
We two were servants to the same Idea:
Thou, in the sun: I, in the shadow: thou
The judge, and I the executioner.
Which chose the surer service? Didst thou deem
Of such vile stuff as these degenerate times
Show all men made of, to rebuild anew
This broken Italy, and transmute to gold,
For Freedom's crown, mixt metal so made up
Of meanest elements? O, too dearly paid,
Error too noble! This flaw'd crucible,
And these dead minerals which, year by year,
I to ennoble have so idly toil'd,
Might teach us both the folly of that dream.
But thou art gone. And still the rabble crowd,
That freed Barabbas and rejected Christ,
Caps to the common tyrant. I work on,
Patient as Death. Because my trust is rather
In man's crimes than his virtues. Rather here,
With Messer Nicolo Machiavelli, brother,
(Whose book's the bible of that bitter faith
Thy life rejected, but thy death confirms)
Than in the force of any single life
To leaven this dead lump, and quicken it
With such a heat as in thine ashes left
The latest human hope of Florence cold,
Lost Savonarola! Let the shames o' the time
Increase and multiply! the swifter speeds
The hour of renovation, summonsing
To the stern sessions of the assembled Fates
Earth's full-grown wickednesses.
Dear murder'd ghost, that, unavenged, criest out
To shame Heaven's silence,—Fra Girolamo!
We two were servants to the same Idea:
Thou, in the sun: I, in the shadow: thou
The judge, and I the executioner.
Which chose the surer service? Didst thou deem
Of such vile stuff as these degenerate times
Show all men made of, to rebuild anew
This broken Italy, and transmute to gold,
For Freedom's crown, mixt metal so made up
Of meanest elements? O, too dearly paid,
Error too noble! This flaw'd crucible,
166
I to ennoble have so idly toil'd,
Might teach us both the folly of that dream.
But thou art gone. And still the rabble crowd,
That freed Barabbas and rejected Christ,
Caps to the common tyrant. I work on,
Patient as Death. Because my trust is rather
In man's crimes than his virtues. Rather here,
With Messer Nicolo Machiavelli, brother,
(Whose book's the bible of that bitter faith
Thy life rejected, but thy death confirms)
Than in the force of any single life
To leaven this dead lump, and quicken it
With such a heat as in thine ashes left
The latest human hope of Florence cold,
Lost Savonarola! Let the shames o' the time
Increase and multiply! the swifter speeds
The hour of renovation, summonsing
To the stern sessions of the assembled Fates
Earth's full-grown wickednesses.
Sons of Cain,
Prosper,—and perish! whiles I nurse your race
For condemnation. I, whose eyes have seen
The father buried, and whose hands have hope
To sepulchre the sons! Who takes the sword
Shall perish by it. Be it mine to sow
The cropping seed, whilst thou, dread harvester
Of lusty sins, laborious Liberty,
Whose foison is the full-ear'd field of Time,
Sett'st to the sickle sharp thy scorn'd right hand,
Which shall anon with unrelenting swathe
Reap in the ruddy upsprout.
Hist! Who knocks?
Prosper,—and perish! whiles I nurse your race
For condemnation. I, whose eyes have seen
The father buried, and whose hands have hope
To sepulchre the sons! Who takes the sword
Shall perish by it. Be it mine to sow
The cropping seed, whilst thou, dread harvester
167
Whose foison is the full-ear'd field of Time,
Sett'st to the sickle sharp thy scorn'd right hand,
Which shall anon with unrelenting swathe
Reap in the ruddy upsprout.
Hist! Who knocks?
FRANCESCO.
(without).
Francesco.
FRA LUKE.
Enter, Highness!
FRANCESCO.
(entering.)
Salvum tibi!
Is the stuff ready?
FRA LUKE.
Yes. But it must cool.
FRANCESCO.
Oh, we can wait. How many drops?
FRA LUKE.
One, Highness.
FRANCESCO.
Is that enough? Well, life's a vapour, Friar.
168
And in the midst of life we are in death.
Last night the Cavaliere Antenori
Expired, at Twelve. He did confess his sins,
And died, I trust, repentant. Heaven have mercy
Upon his soul!
FRA LUKE.
Amen. What died he of?
FRANCESCO.
An apoplexy.
FRA LUKE.
Ah, . . . I comprehend!
The cause,—a cord about the jugular.
FRANCESCO.
Peace, Monk! A man dies by the hand of God.
The scandal grew . . . Why even King Philip writes,
—But let that pass. De mortuis, Fra Luke,
Nil nisi bonum. But for Eleanora . . .
FRA LUKE.
Is this for her?
FRANCESCO.
What? what? you question me?
169
The honour of our brother's wife, Fra Luke!
By Bacchus! and the thing is infamous.
Let him look to it!
FRA LUKE.
Ay.
FRANCESCO.
But he's so light!
Heady and light. 'Tis idle talking to him.
And eaten up with debts. And vices. Zounds,
'Tis the most infamous knight in Christendom!
Without a spark of honour—piety—
The most ungodly Good-for-naught . . . 'Faith, Friar,
We are not fortunate in our family,
Nothing but scandals! I am all day long
White-washing their iniquities; and still
Our House stinks in men's nostrils—and they know it—
Worse than a plague-pit!
FRA LUKE.
But your Highness soon
Will make it quite a whited sepulchre.
O my good lord, how well this noble zeal
For the fair fame of your illustrious House
Becomes your august father's glorious son!
170
In that vast work, for whose accomplishment
My soul divines in your great daily deeds
The unanswerable warrant of high God!
But shrink not! shrink not! you have far to go,
And much to do,—in furtherance of God's will.
Shrink not, great Master of the Medici!
FRANCESCO.
Fra Luke, Fra Luke! pray Heaven to yield us strength.
We have most painful duties to perform.
FRA LUKE.
My nightly prayer is that your Highness ever
May—as you do—perform them.
FRANCESCO.
I have pledged
The mother of that lad, she shall not lack
Justice. But we must have no public prate.
It must be done discreetly.
FRA LUKE.
What lad, Master?
FRANCESCO.
That—Page of Isabella's—what's his name?
Lelio, I think—that Troïlo Orsini
171
With no consideration for ourselves,
Nor for the Church of God.—For, think, Fra Luke!
The brat was stabb'd in our own livery,
And died before he could his sins confess,
In our own sister's house—before her face—
By day—and on a Sunday! What's the hour?
FRA LUKE.
Nigh midnight, by the Duomo clock. I heard
Three quarters striking to the middle night,
A little while before your Highness knock'd.
FRANCESCO.
I'll see him now, then. Go. The south-west wing,
(But not by the grand staircase, for your life!)
There's, in the little chamber, where last stood
That vase I sent His Catholic Majesty,
—My porcelain—you remember?—the new shape—
Now waiting—you shall know him by the plume—
A white one—in his hat—a man much injured:
Our sister's husband, Paolo Giordano
Orsini, of Bracciano. Bring him here
By the mask'd stairway. And be careful, Monk,
To slip the spear back in the Cupid's hand
That's last of all the group, which, cluster'd, hides
The spring I show'd you, that unlocks the door
Between the two great mirrors. (Twenty Loves
172
And Venice work.) The Duke and I have business,
And you will find him waiting. Go.
FRA LUKE.
Your Highness,
Like the true artist, no detail neglects,
But your least work is thorough.
FRANCESCO.
Flatterer!
We all must do what little good we can.
Life is so short! Be quick.
FRA LUKE.
(More murder!) Sir
Your Highness shall not wait. I'll bring the Duke. Exit Fra Luke.
FRANCESCO.
(alone.)
Ay. Life is short, so short! Brief, brief and evil!
Oh what a business have I here, to purge
Of its bad blood this fat and pursy time,
And keep a decent cleanness in my Court!
When am I ever idle? Where's the Prince
In Christendom, whatever Philip says,
That's more decorous, or more circumspect
Than I, more nicely careful to maintain
Proper appearances in men and things,
And yet withal,—the shame of it's in that,—
More harass'd in his house by kindred more
Disorderly, more thankless! Ferdinand,
—And he a Cardinal, and my heir—that's worse!
Curse him! he's nothing but a conduit, he,
Perpetually conducting Christian coin
Out of the coffers of my careful thrift
Into the greasy purses of the Jews:
Making himself (a pillar of the Church!)
Chief corner-stone o' the new Jerusalem.
Small thanks to him, if I myself some day
Be not in Abraham's bosom! Heaven knows how
My substance goes to fatten Abraham's seed.
And the rogues multiply! Abram begets
Isaac, and Isaac Jacob. Pietro too,
The most unblushing profligate that breathes,
Connives, unshamed, at his own cuckledom!
And sister Isabella . . . . 'sdeath! I'll make
A clean sweep this time. Let them look to it.
'Sdeath! even Philip shall be satisfied.
[The clock strikes outside from the Duomo.
Hark! there's another day gone. Coin by coin,
The scrupulous Time tells out his sounding sum,
And rings the tested metal, that he owes
Eternity, that usurer of life,
Which, lending little, takes our all at last,
And gives back nothing got.
Go, coin of time,
No longer current! pay in part life's loan.
Go, with the image of a Christian Prince
Stamp'd on thee, to the treasury of Heaven!
Bear witness for me to the King of Kings,
That I, Francesco dei Medici,
Grand Duke of Florence by the grace of God,
That grace requite by no disgraceful rule,
Uphold the Church, promote Religion, keep
Morality respected, and pluck off
Even from the cherisht body of my House
Offending limbs. Bear witness there's no deed
Done in the dark against Heaven's Throne, or mine,
(Which to keep heavenly white is my desire,)
But I have eyes to see it, and no place
On earth so distant, where ill-doers hide,
But I have arms to reach it.
Welcome, Duke!
Oh what a business have I here, to purge
Of its bad blood this fat and pursy time,
And keep a decent cleanness in my Court!
When am I ever idle? Where's the Prince
In Christendom, whatever Philip says,
That's more decorous, or more circumspect
Than I, more nicely careful to maintain
173
And yet withal,—the shame of it's in that,—
More harass'd in his house by kindred more
Disorderly, more thankless! Ferdinand,
—And he a Cardinal, and my heir—that's worse!
Curse him! he's nothing but a conduit, he,
Perpetually conducting Christian coin
Out of the coffers of my careful thrift
Into the greasy purses of the Jews:
Making himself (a pillar of the Church!)
Chief corner-stone o' the new Jerusalem.
Small thanks to him, if I myself some day
Be not in Abraham's bosom! Heaven knows how
My substance goes to fatten Abraham's seed.
And the rogues multiply! Abram begets
Isaac, and Isaac Jacob. Pietro too,
The most unblushing profligate that breathes,
Connives, unshamed, at his own cuckledom!
And sister Isabella . . . . 'sdeath! I'll make
A clean sweep this time. Let them look to it.
'Sdeath! even Philip shall be satisfied.
[The clock strikes outside from the Duomo.
Hark! there's another day gone. Coin by coin,
The scrupulous Time tells out his sounding sum,
And rings the tested metal, that he owes
Eternity, that usurer of life,
Which, lending little, takes our all at last,
And gives back nothing got.
174
No longer current! pay in part life's loan.
Go, with the image of a Christian Prince
Stamp'd on thee, to the treasury of Heaven!
Bear witness for me to the King of Kings,
That I, Francesco dei Medici,
Grand Duke of Florence by the grace of God,
That grace requite by no disgraceful rule,
Uphold the Church, promote Religion, keep
Morality respected, and pluck off
Even from the cherisht body of my House
Offending limbs. Bear witness there's no deed
Done in the dark against Heaven's Throne, or mine,
(Which to keep heavenly white is my desire,)
But I have eyes to see it, and no place
On earth so distant, where ill-doers hide,
But I have arms to reach it.
Welcome, Duke!
BRACCIANO.
(entering with fra luke).
Your Highness' humble servant. What strange place
Is this I stand in?
FRANCESCO.
The State's workshop, Sir.
Good simple soldier, in this little cell
The spider, Policy, all arms, all eyes,
175
That buzzing fool, the world. My father, Duke,
He was a man by all mankind esteem'd
Most fortunate. His hair, before its time,
Grew grey with study. Study of what, you wonder?
Chemicals. Studied where? Here, in this cell.
Chemistry, Soldier, trust me, is a science
Which now-a-days we sceptred students need
To study more than your rough art of war.
But that's beyond. Be seated, brave Bracciano.
We prove our love and confidence in you,
Seeing you here, where few have seen us. Sit.
BRACCIANO.
I wait your Highness' orders.
FRANCESCO.
True. But stay,
You have not slept upon the road from Rome.
For that we thank you. 'Twas not without cause
That our despatch was urgent. But, no doubt,
You must be tired and hungry, and in need
Of some refreshment. Ope the door, Fra Luke.
There's supper in the anteroom.
BRACCIANO.
No, no!
I am not hungry. I have supp'd elsewhere.
I thank your Highness, but—
176
Tut! tut! a glass
Of Cyprus wine? a brace of beccafiche?
BRACCIANO.
My Lord, no, thank you. Savory tho' they be,
These chemicals of yours scarce whet the edge
Of a man's appetite: and as for me,
I have about me no digestive stuff,
No spider paste, no powder'd unicorn horn,
Or any other kind of stimulant
Against a too-long after-dinner sleep.
FRANCESCO.
Ha, ha, Bracciano! ever sharp and merry!
BRACCIANO.
No, Sir. Most sad and sober. You were pleased
To invite me hither with some urgency
Which yet I know no cause for. Being come
From Rome in haste to hear them, I now wait
Your Highness' orders.
FRANCESCO.
Leave us, then, Fra Luke.
You shall be satisfied, good brother-in-law.
A word, Fra Luke! Your pardon, dear Orsini.
But if you knew what lovers you have here
177
Of the true masters of the Tuscan tongue!
There's in our private library, Fra Luke,
Fresh from the printer's hand . . . . what type! what type!
The purified and expurgated text,
—'Tis by the Cavaliere Leonardo,—
Of the Decameron of Boccaccio.
Be good enough to look at it. One thing
Is sure, at least,—you will admire the type.
And let us know your mind upon the text
Presently. On the whole, it seems to us
The Cavaliere has succeeded well,
And with no common skill, in no slight task.
So many shocking and unseemly parts
In the first nude robustness of the text
Needing to be decorously conceal'd
In flowers of language carefully arranged,
Or from the body of the book removed
Wholly, with such incision nice as leaves
No beauty blemish'd. Look at it, Fra Luke.
Oh, what a fallen thing is Human Nature!
Alas, alas, Fra Luke! is it not sad
That such a genius, such a man as this
Messer Giovanni, should be damn'd? And yet,
What can we think, Fra Luke? what must we fear?
Such genius with such immorality!
Sad! sad!
178
The Almighty knows the world too well
To expect five legs of mutton from a sheep.
The best of us, in our imperfectness,
Must largely count upon that tolerance
In Him that, having made, best knows, mankind.
But, may it please your Highness, there's no doubt
Messer Giovanni did repent his sins
Upon his death-bed, and so pass'd in peace.
FRANCESCO.
Are you quite sure of that? I am very glad.
A man of so much genius! And you say
He saw, at last, Fra Luke, and did repent,
The many errors of his pen? Well, well,
Morality thus triumphs at the last.
It comforts me to think he is not damn'd.
May it be true!
BRACCIANO.
('Sblood! am I his tame hawk?
To be held hooded on the hand of him,
While he—the pepper merchant—) I remind
Your Highness that, not having yet the honour
To be a lackey of the Medici,
I lack that patientness which, as it seems,
Such office craves.
179
Indeed?
[In his ear, after surveying him a moment in silence.
Restrain this fire
A moment. We must fuel it anon.
Off then, Fra Luke, into the Library!
Peruse Boccaccio till we call.
FRA LUKE.
I go, Sir.
(The spider and the wasp. I back the spider.)
[Exit Fra Luke.
FRANCESCO.
Be seated, Duke. Be seated. Now, to business.
[After a pause.
Duke of Bracciano, our good brother-in-law,
It needs not now that we remember you
Of our past loves, and care for your good name:
Whose house so neighbours ours, that fire lit there
Must burn ourselves.
Duke of Bracciano, our good brother-in-law,
It needs not now that we remember you
Of our past loves, and care for your good name:
Whose house so neighbours ours, that fire lit there
Must burn ourselves.
BRACCIANO.
I know your Highness' goodness,
And—as it merits—thank it. Pray, my lord,
Come quickly to the matter.
180
Sir, at once.
Which, were it less notorious than we know it,
I could have fain forgotten. O my lord,
We are the laughingstock of this lewd town!
I am in you offended, you in me.
Our most unworthy sister—your worse wife—
O'ertasks the common tongue to count up all
Her manifold misconducts.
BRACCIANO.
Isabella!
FRANCESCO.
No better than a strumpet, good Bracciano.
BRACCIANO.
Uncivil Sir, he lives not that dare say it!
Were't in the Duomo's self, I'd strangle him.
FRANCESCO.
O much, my lord, I must lament the cause,
As much I do admire your noble anger.
And then, to think the traitor lives—
BRACCIANO.
His name?
181
Who hath so wickedly abused your faith
Too fondly given—all ties of blood—all titles
That honour's held by—
BRACCIANO.
Hell, and all its devils!
His name? his name?
FRANCESCO.
Ay, that's the worst of all.
BRACCIANO.
I am stifling.
FRANCESCO.
Tho' the town might tell it thee.
BRACCIANO.
The name, Grand Duke of Florence?
FRANCESCO.
Troïlo
Orsini, and thy cousin.
BRACCIANO.
Troïlo!
182
Most basely hath betray'd you.
BRACCIANO.
Bear with me.
FRANCESCO.
Ay. Realise that first. It will take time.
For such things toughly task credulity
In all men's natures, but the soldier's most;
Whose noble wont is never to expect
The blow that stabs behind. But, for the proofs
Of this bad truth . . . no matter! they can wait.
Duke, I have brooded on these wrongs of yours
Till . . .
BRACCIANO.
Yes. I understand. In such a place
As this . . . what must I call it, Duke of Florence?
FRANCESCO.
Grand Duke, Orsini.
BRACCIANO.
Certainly. Most grand!
In this detestable den of yours, I say,
Where nothing wholesome is, nought's natural
But what is wholly monstrous. Here you hatch
183
Shut in this stew where no good air is breathed,
Where each vile fancy cooks her fœtid eggs,
Where all abominable thoughts are brew'd,
Until at last, from brooding on these things,
These lies . . .
FRANCESCO.
Bracciano!
BRACCIANO.
If you spake the truth
Your countenance . . .
FRANCESCO.
Be still, unhappy man!
By Bacchus! married men are mostly fools,
But you are an amazing maniac.
BRACCIANO.
Troïlo? Now I'll tell you why I know
That is a lie. When he and I were boys—
FRANCESCO.
When you and he were boys! Are you a man?
BRACCIANO.
Ay, and at nature's manly bidding spurn
184
You are deceived, my lord. I'll not believe it.
FRANCESCO.
You are deceived. Most wickedly deceived.
BRACCIANO.
I'll not believe it.
FRANCESCO.
Duke you will: tho' now
You would not. O unhappy infidel,
Already all the town doth pity thee.
BRACCIANO.
That cannot be. Were this the stalèd jest
Of street and tavern, as your talk implies,
I should, myself, have heard it.
FRANCESCO.
What, at Rome?
BRACCIANO.
Why not at Rome? There's talk enough in Rome?
That's little to the credit, as it goes,
Of the illustrious family of my wife.
185
My lord, we know it. More behoves it us
To silence this same talk. But married men
Are a strange kind of asses with short ears
That are not quickly tickled by such talk.
It is the mercy, Duke, of Providence
That made them thus.
BRACCIANO.
Prince, you may be deceived.
Even Princes know not everything.
FRANCESCO.
Ay, Duke.
But one—Francesco dei Medici—
Knows everything—at least in Florence. Much
To you and me, my lord, it matters not
If true or false the talk of florence town.
The talking town talks of us. That's enough.
The fault of that's in Isabella now.
If talk goes on, the fault will be in us.
For we are gentlemen and Christians, Duke.
I have a brother's duty to perform,
And you a husband's. But the talk's all true,
It happens, this time. By and by peruse
These papers, Duke. And learn betimes to know
That I know everything.
186
Most wretched man,
Thou buyest thy knowledge at too dear a price!
That which we know must make us ignorant
Of happiness for ever: ignorant
Of wholesome human faith for evermore.
O God, the misery of knowing this!
The misery of it!
FRANCESCO.
Ay. 'Tis bad enough.
You see, that rascal Troïlo has spoil'd all
Our care to keep things quiet. But for this
We might have let your Duchess grow in peace
That crop of horns for her wise husband's head,
Which now, I fear, must off with some sharp lopping.
But he, the fool, for stupid jealousy
Of some well-looking lad, a sort of Page
Of Isabel's, I think,—no name, no name,—
Good honest country folk his kindred are,
And scandalized amazingly,—almost
It makes me smile, their infinite surprise
And indignation at what, after all,
Was, tho' on his part an immense mistake,
Yet, in its way, a kind of compliment
From such a man as your illustrious cousin
To their unlucky kinsman: but, you see,
As I was telling you, from jealousy
187
Almost in public. And, in short, the thing
Has made an ugly talk about us all.
And this dead cub's curst dam is shrieking out
For law, and justice, and the devil knows what,
To me, Grand Duke of Florence.
BRACCIANO.
Troïlo!
The gentle, ever-quiet, small, weak boy
I used to carry, when we two were young,
Upon my back—barefooted I, and he
Hugging my neck, while, like a wise church daw,
He chatter'd, with sagacious spriteliness
(The sagest little man that ever was!)
High up the mountain torrents! Troïlo,
Him that I taught to ride, to fence, to swim,
And never yet could teach an evil thing,
Rebuked, as well my boisterous youth might be,
By that girl's face of his! My Troïlo,
My more than cousin, sister-brother! he
To whose chaste woman-hands I gave in charge,
As to a saint's, my honour and my home!
FRANCESCO.
Most villanously hath betray'd them both.
Bracciano, milk that's spilt . . . You know the proverb.
Think only how you best may be avenged.
188
Avenged? on whom? on what? On all mankind,
For being what I now must deem men all,
Traitors and knaves? No better, sure, the rest,
Than my most trusted friend! All women, too?
For being—what my wife has proved they are,
That was the best of them I ever knew!
Vengeance? on all the world! for all the world
Is my wrong-doer,—suffering such wrongs in it.
Vengeance? on Heaven! that made, and yet maintains,
So vile a world as this. O where, where, where,
In all the armoury of human wrath
At most inhuman wrongs, shall I find arms
Enough for such a vengeance?
FRANCESCO.
Stoop thine ear.
Stay! let me first make sure we are unheard.
Keyholes have ears: those ears have tongues: those tongues
Utterance: and I, myself, the great arch spy,
From parasitic spies am never free.
No! I have tried the doors. All's fast. This way.
Now listen.
[Whispers.
BRACCIANO.
Devil! thou hast pour'd hellfire
Into my veins!
189
Thou hast no choice, Bracciano.
BRACCIANO.
Forbid it Heaven!
FRANCESCO.
Oh, Heaven doth forbid it,
But Isabel hath done it.
BRACCIANO.
Misery!
FRANCESCO.
Undoubtedly. But duty, not the less.
Duty, Bracciano, duty!
BRACCIANO.
And my boy,
My innocent brat! When he shall ask one day
‘Father, where is my mother?’ God will listen,
And only Hell dare answer!
FRANCESCO.
Bah! Myself,
I'll answer. Tush, the boy need never know:
Or, knowing it, he shall approve the deed.
I'll educate him.
190
You? And after death
Must come the judgment.
FRANCESCO.
She is judged already.
'Sdeath, Duke! What wrongs are mine to match with yours?
Yet she I sacrifice to your just wrath
And righteous vengeance, is my sister.
BRACCIANO.
Ay,
But not the mother of thy children. Oh,
If they must lose their lives, all they whose names
Are lost in credit by a losel tongue,
There'll be none living left to slay the rest.
Why should I rashly ratify the word
Of the unthinking rabble?
FRANCESCO.
Cæsar's wife
(Remember, Duke, what Suetonius says)
He suffer'd not to be suspected even.
BRACCIANO.
Ay, man. But still, he did not murder her.
191
Hush! murder's not the word.
BRACCIANO.
Oh, judgment, is it?
Just judges are we, I and thou, Francesco!
Listen to me, Sir. I'm no hypocrite.
Whose fault was, first of all, this hideous coil?
Oh, do you think that I deceive myself
Enough to be deceived by you? Sir, hear me.
Here was I, Head of the Orsini, son
Of a long line of ducal sires, whose names
Were old,—incalculably old, I say,
Before the first small Medici was dropt
Into this world, by chance, to make what way
Chance still might help him to find out, thro' it.
So far, so well. What, then, was mine, to want?
Money. To get which, what was mine to give?
Just this same ducal name, and lineage old,
With something here and there in men's esteem,
Which, born with these, Wealth, born without it, buys.
You had the wealth, you Medici: and I
What, needing wealth, is still by wealth desired.
So I said,—or, to say the truth, not I—
But all friends said to me—‘This Isabel,
A daughter of the Medici, is rich,
Young, too, and beautiful as all admit,
Secure the money with the girl, Orsini!’
192
Pray what said you? Oh, ‘Let him take the girl,
And take the money, whereby we take him,
The threadbare duke, with his unbroken line
And broken castles,—just the man we want!’
So much for us. The world, of course, cried Bravo!
Clapp'd hands, extoll'd the ‘Suitable Alliance.’
Which one of all of us once asked himself
‘But what, for her part, does the lady gain?
Has she, by chance, a heart? and what says that?
Well, I believe that I have been no worse,
If, at the best, no better on the whole,
Than other men thus suitably allied.
I liked my wife, admired, respected her;
Took it for granted she should be content
To fill the proper place up in my life
Where she was wanted, and remain therein,
Just as you take for granted, the stone saint
Will stay, and decently demean himself,
In that particular cathedral niche
The architect allots him, heeding not
The dulness or the chilness of the place.
And when, to crown it all, there came an heir
Both to the money, and the name to boot,
Content with that result, which seem'd the end,
Small further care about my wife had I,
Than to select the best man I could find
(He seem'd so then) to take up and perform
193
The dear reward love's care of love receives,—)
Of guardian of the honour of a wife
Whose spouse . . . Oh, there's no dearth of weighty cause
For my continued absence: fame, the field,
The Church's banner, then, the friendship vow'd
Don John, Lepanto—man's career in short!
Of course, meanwhile, with business pleasure goes:
Of course I have my mistresses: my wife
No doubt has heard the Accorombona's name:
But that's a trifle. All's allow'd to men.
Of course a wife in fault has no excuse.
Of course, altho' we rate the women all
As three times weaker than our worthless selves,
We yet expect, we have the right to expect,
That they shall be thrice stronger. Wherefore not?
Man can appeal to man. Woman to whom?
Man's both her judge and executioner.
Woe to her if she slips! Just judges we!
FRANCESCO.
Bracciano, all this. . . . .
BRACCIANO.
Interrupt me not!
You're in the way of it. Your turn is coming.
For what was my worst, maddest, wickedest
Of all mistakes? To dream that I could leave,
194
Man's honesty or woman's virtue, here
In the foul precincts of this cursèd Court,
Where all the air's one malady, and all
That breathe it are distemper'd! here, I say,
Where every shape and kind of wickedness,
For which the name's to find yet, grows and thrives,
And at the top of all its hateful growth,
Fed with the sinful sap of all the rest,
Puts forth the crowning vice—Hypocrisy!
Ha, ha! Grand Duke of Florence, I thank God
For one thing heartily! I have made you wince,
And writhe, like the tormented snake you are.
You hate me: and I know a way to hurt you:
That comforts me a little. Hypocrite!
Do you begin to feel that, after all,
The Devil's not so safe in Hell, but what
A ray of Heaven gets at him now and then,
And stings him thro' all custom?
FRANCESCO.
Madman, and fool!
Do you forget that you are in my power?
BRACCIANO.
I forget nothing. But you lie, Grand Duke.
Out of your power I have pass'd away
Forever, and you know it, this sad night.
195
You cannot hurt my wife. I have no wife.
My son? I know not if I have a son.
The adulteress has one. Would you hurt my friends?
There's no man in the world I love or trust.
My name? Disgraced already, you aver.
My life? What's life worth, lacking what mine lacks?
But you'll not take my life. First, for you cannot.
Easier could I kill you than you kill me.
We are alone, just now. Besides, I know,
And you know, that you dare not. Still to you
My life's more useful than my death can be.
To me 'tis useless now. Away with lies,
So thoroughly worn-out, they but show the truth
They should conceal! Francesco, to speak plain,
We do not love each other, never did;
But all we ever had in common still
Remains to us. Community of wrong.
FRANCESCO.
Community of interest.
BRACCIANO.
As you please.
And so to finish this vile work of ours.
Only, for Heaven's sake, Sir, no fine names!
If all that you have said be true . . .
196
It is.
Convince yourself. The proofs are in your hand.
BRACCIANO.
Presently. 'Tis the custom of our House.
And I'll have surer warrant. Her own lips,
Not mine—not yours—no lips, no lips but hers
Shall sound the sentence, if confess'd the crime.
My sentence! For the punishment is mine,
As mine the fault was. She must die.
FRANCESCO.
That's sense.
BRACCIANO.
Die! yes. And then my punishment begins.
For I must live. There's punishment for both.
Duke, . . . you have dealings with that sort of—men
I would not call them: yet there's ne'er a rogue
In Florence, but, I doubt not he is worth
As much as any other honest man!
Pray, did you ever notice carefully
A hangman's countenance? I try to think
That I am altogether pass'd away
So far out of all human sense of what
My misery is, that I may dare assume
The inexorably stern judicial mood
197
I have already judged, and have condemn'd,
Myself,—or rather say, the man I was
Once, and can never be again. Not he,
I try to think,—not he, but that man's judge,
Ascends the justice seat and summons forth
Unhappy Isabella to her doom.
But there's a something left of man in me
—I know not what—'tis strangely out of place—
That troubles all. And, turn which way I will,
These hands of mine still seem a hangman's hands,
And we two, here, conspirators—worse, worse,
Cut-throats! and she our victim. Why is that?
FRANCESCO.
Because you are a simpleton. Because
Your mind, just now, puts all things out of place,
And your life's habit has not help'd your will
To put them promptly in their places back.
I see in all this,—and see noting else—
Plainly, a duty,—painful, I admit,
Painful to me, no less, Sir, than to you,
But still, a duty, to be done, and done
At once, and once done, straight from thought dismiss'd.
The duty's ours: the consequence is not.
Was Abraham careful of the consequence
When, to please God, he sacrificed his son?
Or did he call himself a murderer?
198
Your wife is guilty. There's no doubt of that.
You choose to call merely ‘fine names’ what are
Really fine feelings. You are thoroughly wrong:
For are we Christian gentlemen, or not?
That's the sole point, Duke.
BRACCIANO.
If we be, I say
God help the times!
FRANCESCO.
Amen. God help the times!
God help us all! And most of all, help me!
That have the most to bear of all of you.
And, Duke, you wrong me. Hypocrite I'm not.
The world leaves its chief actors no such choice
As you may fancy, how to act their parts.
Dissimulation is imposed on us.
And let me tell you, there are certain signs
Already, in the crowd,—I can't say what,
I feel them,—that our parts must be played off
Quickly. I think I can, at times, detect
A certain ominous stir about the mass:
Strange faces with uncomfortable eyes:
New comers, whom their places do not please:
Vague sounds not wholly satisfactory:
A restlessness that . . . Well, it matters not!
I shall have play'd my part out, anyhow.
199
Our stage is old. One of these days, perchance,
It may give way, and there'll be broken bones.
I shall have strutted off it. Hypocrite
I am not. But profound dissimulator,
Yes. That's my part. And hypocrite to you!
To you at least I have been frank enough.
Outspoken, like the friendly gentleman
You'll have occasion yet to find I am.
But your unhappy state excuses all.
You'll sober, and be sorry by and by.
In thus consulting you, thus timely, thus
Freely and unreservedly, on what
Is after all a matter that concerns,
With or without your leave, or any man's,
Ourselves in chief,—(for Isabel's our stuff)
We think that we have shown you full regard,
Friendly and honourable confidence,
Deserving recognition. Aught, unknown
To you, we would not willingly have done.
But, knowing what you know, if it would ease
The sort of natural trouble your unuse
To such necessities now suffers, Duke,
We'll rid your hands of what remains to do
And undertake . . .
BRACCIANO.
No, no! not you! not you!
200
'Tis punishment already.
FRANCESCO.
As you will.
But you're so hot! You'll blunder I half fear.
I need not say, do nothing unconvinced.
Convinced you will be. But remember, Duke,
No public talk, no scandal! Nothing rude,
Conspicuous, unseemly! What's to do
Must be discreetly done. Ha, by the way,
My brother Ferdinand writes me word, Bracciano,
That you are much indebted: sorely prest
To make good certain obligations due,
Nor longer now renewable. Is that true?
BRACCIANO.
Pish! yes.
FRANCESCO.
Well, Duke, we'll settle this for you.
Count up your debts. Ah, if you only knew
How you have wrong'd us? But you'll find that out.
Count up your debts. We'll pay them.
BRACCIANO.
Peace! What's left
201
Now all beneath it's buried! all, all, all!
FRANCESCO.
You must not think of things so sullenly.
But as a man that's master of his wrongs,
And greater even than the greatness of them.
Rouse! rouse!
BRACCIANO.
Francesco, I will tell you now
A thing will give you pleasure. Take it, fiend!
'Tis the last pleasure you will get from me.
I think, if I were capable just now
Of any feeling in the least like joy,
'Twould be to know that you were miserable
Beyond endurance: therefore I suppose,
Since no less cordially do you hate me
Than I hate you, 'twill give you pleasure too,
To hear what I shall say. I said erewhile
I liked my wife, admired, respected her.
That's over. I can not respect her now,
Admire, or like her. All that's worlds away!
But what do you suppose I am going to do
Presently, when I leave this den? To murder
The woman that I love! love, love, do you hear?
I never loved her when I thought her pure.
I know her not pure now. I love her now.
202
You see that I am miserable enough.
Make much of that. Mine she was yesterday,
And yesterday I was an honest man.
I did not love her then. I loved myself.
All's changed. She is mine no more: we both are lost.
For, losing her, I have lost myself. To-night
I, with the murderer's heart in me already,
Love her, the harlot that I go to kill.
Have that writ down by some choice Tuscan scribe,
A drama for the devil to chuckle at:
A devil's drama, for a devil's delight,
Acted by devils damn'd beyond redemption!
FRANCESCO.
The heart of man's a mystery!
BRACCIANO.
All's so clear!
The Might-have-been, which never can be now,
The Must-be-now, which never could have been,
Were't not that knowledge ever comes too late,
And all that's good is, in this wretched world,
Good miss'd! Why came I in such haste from Rome?
Not at your mandate: tho' your missive seem'd
The pretext still. For I was thoroughly tired
Of what had been. 'Tis not, I think, in you
To understand how it should come about
203
The busy so-call'd waking life of a man,
There slides across the spirit that's moving it
A silent instantaneous dreamlike change:
Born, as in dreams such changes are, perchance
Of something, Heaven knows what, so small, so small,
That with a mystic trouble turns aside
Suddenly the main currents of the mind:
The look in a dog's eyes: a stranger's talk:
The death of some man that you never knew:
Less, less than that! chance odours after rain,
Or old-new colours in an evening sky,
And all at once the Present is the Past,
The Past the Present, and the Future all
One nameless yearning to recapture . . . what?
Ah that's the question! But with me 'twas Home,
A resting from the nowhere-leading ways
Of feverish Life's sick walking up and down,
Peace, and the quiet-hearted household loves!
FRANCESCO.
Marry again then!
BRACCIANO.
Plaudite! valete!
All's as it should be here. The play's complete.
Look round, admire the order of the parts!
Is not all Florence represented here?
204
Call'd statecraft by this time's complacent voice,
Behold, on yonder silent shelves all round,
Its speechless representatives! The rest?
Oh, all the rest's in our two persons play'd!
Behold the Personages of the Age:
Conspirator, Assassin, Hypocrite,
Prince without truth, and Subject without trust.
As for the People, it is quite as much
Visible here as elsewhere, just at present:
The People's part is properly left out:
The Prostitute's behind the scenes: the Spy,
The Cuckold,—all are here I think, and all
Are represented worthily. What else
Is wanting?
FRANCESCO.
Ho! Fra Luke!
BRACCIANO.
True, I forgot.
The Church!
FRANCESCO.
What ho! Fra Luke! Fra Luke, I say!
FRA LUKE (entering).
(They have not kill'd each other? no such luck!
205
Your Highness call'd me?
FRANCESCO.
Well? The New Edition?
What of it, Friar?
FRA LUKE.
I like ever best
Each last Edition of what I may call
Your Highness' careful study and extreme care
To improve, suppress, eradicate what needs
The pruning-knife of strict Morality,
This world's rank garden's wary weeder.
FRANCESCO.
Ah!
I am glad that we appear to have done well.
Dear, dear Bracciano! so then you must go?
Well, 'twere but cruel kindness on our part
To keep you any longer from the home
Where those that love you there have so long miss'd
Your welcome presence. Oh, Sir, we expect
To hear of famous doings presently,—
Prompt slaying of the fatted calf,—what not?
All sorts of welcomes to this best event!
Heaven bless you, dear Bracciano!
206
(Strange! He knows
That I know all. Yet, for the life of him,
The habit of hypocrisy so sticks,
He cannot help pretending to deceive me.)
FRANCESCO.
Conduct the Duke, Fra Luke. The Duke's impatient.
And, dear Bracciano, I'm so glad, so glad
That, as regards the trifle we discuss'd,
We are of one mind wholly. And the money,
The money shall be paid. Zounds! it would be
Abominable, unchristian, if we left
In the curst clutches of those rascally Jews
A moment longer our dear sister's husband.
Go! joy be with you. Stay, one parting word!
When of the odious truth you are assured,
I pray you, Sir, remember that you are
A gentleman and a Christian.
BRACCIANO.
Heaven and earth!
FRA LUKE.
(I back'd the spider. Well, the spider wins!)
This way, illustrious Senior Duke! this way.
[Exeunt Bracciano and Fra Luke.
207
(alone.)
Bluster! all bluster! For I hold him fast.
Astonishing! how soon a man forgets
Debts to Despair. Before a month is past
I shall be pray'd to pay his other debts,
Almost as desperate. They are all the same.
'Twere well to have him watch'd, tho', till he's tame.
Poor fellow! 'tis so fresh to him, all this.
Well, now that's off our mind which weighs on his.
Suscipiunt montes pacem populo!
Servite Dominum in lætitiâ. So
Jacta est alea, the bolt is sped.
A litany now: and then, content, to bed!
) A portion of the dialogue between Francesco and Bracciano is taken from Signor Guerrazzi's Racconto of “Isabella Orsini.” The Grand Duke's parting injunction to his brother-in-law is historical. The subject has been incidentally treated, in his “White Devil,” by Webster; to whom one of his contemporary eulogists addresses these lines—
“Brachiano's Ill,
Murthering his Dutchesse, hath by thy rare skill
Made him renown'd.”
Murthering his Dutchesse, hath by thy rare skill
Made him renown'd.”
208
VANINI
LECTURES BEFORE THE SORBONNE. (PARIS, SIXTEENTH CENTURY.)
Welcome, dear friends! . . . tho' to a stranger's heart!
For, 'mid your fair French faces, as they throng
Fast, fast about me, I perceive—if not
The name of Italy encharacter'd,
Such as her sultry suns with swarthy finger
Upon my own have traced it—yet the eye
Of keen enquiry, and the eager cheek,
Native to such as nature's hand hews out
From her unfeatured and inglorious mass,
For common kindred in the shining band
Of those that both desire, and dare, to know!
Therefore, I take you to my heart of hearts:
High peers, whose brows by Thought are privileged
To owe no homage to the narrow zones
Of partial Place, and casual Circumstance,
But hold high colloquy with those supreme
And solitary Spirits which allow
No bondage of the branding zodiac
To limit their hereditary realms
In universal space! Therefore, I bid
My best self, freely, to your fellowship:
And, as, within the mystic circle traced
By Persic priests, the affable Genius
(Appeased by myrrhy fumes that please him well)
Doth, to delight each mild-eyed Magian,
Unpack the treasures of the ransackt world,
Else hutcht from sight 'twixt either sleeping pole,
—Gold, by wing'd gryphons for Abassin kings
Guarded in mountain treasure-houses deep,
Great wizard gems from Solomon's thumb ring,
And sea-green marbles from Caucasian mines,
Thick-vein'd with white fire;—so, sweet Mages, I,
Lured by your loves, do at your feet lay low
The spoils from Science filch'd by stealthy toil;
Rare secrets of the starry universe,
Flying around the centre, and what dwells
Deep in the undivulgèd mind of man.
For, 'mid your fair French faces, as they throng
209
The name of Italy encharacter'd,
Such as her sultry suns with swarthy finger
Upon my own have traced it—yet the eye
Of keen enquiry, and the eager cheek,
Native to such as nature's hand hews out
From her unfeatured and inglorious mass,
For common kindred in the shining band
Of those that both desire, and dare, to know!
Therefore, I take you to my heart of hearts:
High peers, whose brows by Thought are privileged
To owe no homage to the narrow zones
Of partial Place, and casual Circumstance,
But hold high colloquy with those supreme
And solitary Spirits which allow
No bondage of the branding zodiac
To limit their hereditary realms
In universal space! Therefore, I bid
My best self, freely, to your fellowship:
And, as, within the mystic circle traced
By Persic priests, the affable Genius
(Appeased by myrrhy fumes that please him well)
Doth, to delight each mild-eyed Magian,
Unpack the treasures of the ransackt world,
Else hutcht from sight 'twixt either sleeping pole,
—Gold, by wing'd gryphons for Abassin kings
Guarded in mountain treasure-houses deep,
Great wizard gems from Solomon's thumb ring,
210
Thick-vein'd with white fire;—so, sweet Mages, I,
Lured by your loves, do at your feet lay low
The spoils from Science filch'd by stealthy toil;
Rare secrets of the starry universe,
Flying around the centre, and what dwells
Deep in the undivulgèd mind of man.
I mark the wonder widening in your eyes
As they turn to me, wistful what comes next;
And hear you murmuring, as my spirit moves
Among you like the unseen wind that blows
To billowy toil full-bearded harvest fields.
“Can it be true?” ye ask yourselves, . . . “The man
Before you, with the scarcely-wrinkled brow
And yet unsilver'd hair,—can he have reach'd
So soon the cloudy summits that command
That spacious prospect which the hoary sage
Scarce sees before he sinks into the grave?
How many cycles in the wilderness
Did Moses wander, leading right and left
His puzzled followers, till, fatigued to death,
He, from the top of Pisgah gazing, saw
The Promised Land, and died. yet hath the man
That stands before you, speaking like a voice
Out of the sunder'd stars, imperative,
Some years of youth still left to fling away.”
And so ye marvel. And I marvel not
That ye delay to put aside all doubt.
Because I know that half the Prophet's power
Upon the multitude (tho' ye, indeed,
I count not of the many, but the few)
Lies in the lifted rod, the flowing robe,
The hoary beard, and many-furrow'd brow.
Yet, friends, 'tis true,—all true! The man ye see me,
Such as I am, I have attain'd the end
And eminence of all the sciences.
A spirit zoned with the nine-folded spheres,
That in his right hand turns the rolling globe
Around, for pastime,—I command the Powers
That hide within the heights and depths of things,
Not easily commanded. In a word,
Whatever may be known by man, I know.
As they turn to me, wistful what comes next;
And hear you murmuring, as my spirit moves
Among you like the unseen wind that blows
To billowy toil full-bearded harvest fields.
“Can it be true?” ye ask yourselves, . . . “The man
Before you, with the scarcely-wrinkled brow
And yet unsilver'd hair,—can he have reach'd
So soon the cloudy summits that command
That spacious prospect which the hoary sage
Scarce sees before he sinks into the grave?
How many cycles in the wilderness
Did Moses wander, leading right and left
His puzzled followers, till, fatigued to death,
He, from the top of Pisgah gazing, saw
The Promised Land, and died. yet hath the man
That stands before you, speaking like a voice
Out of the sunder'd stars, imperative,
Some years of youth still left to fling away.”
And so ye marvel. And I marvel not
211
Because I know that half the Prophet's power
Upon the multitude (tho' ye, indeed,
I count not of the many, but the few)
Lies in the lifted rod, the flowing robe,
The hoary beard, and many-furrow'd brow.
Yet, friends, 'tis true,—all true! The man ye see me,
Such as I am, I have attain'd the end
And eminence of all the sciences.
A spirit zoned with the nine-folded spheres,
That in his right hand turns the rolling globe
Around, for pastime,—I command the Powers
That hide within the heights and depths of things,
Not easily commanded. In a word,
Whatever may be known by man, I know.
Yes! I, the italian Doctor, Julius Cæsar
Lucilio Vanini, whom you know
Already by no casual report,
Have by much study, travel, and strong thought,
Master'd in some few thirty years, or less,
Philosophy, and physics: medicals:
Theology; and law, in both its branches,
The civil and the canon (for who knows not
That in utroque jure I am Doctor?)
All schools of East or West: anatomy:
Mechanics: mathematics: music: all
Poets, grammarians, and historians:
Natural magic, and astronomy,
Astrology: with what from these a man
May further fashion, in the advance of time,
By sharp experience of himself, to add
Knowledge to knowledge. Also I have writ
On Free Will, Fate, and Providence, confuting
Whatever was by others said before
Upon these subjects, and constraining those
That read my books to burn their own: besides
Two dialogues on the contempt of glory
Which, that I do not crave a vain renown
But have sought Science for her own sweet sake,
Shall witness for me to all candid minds:
And,—so you shall not fear that I indulge
Such froward spirit as our Holy Church
Not seldom in her children hath reproved,
Prodigals that forsake the Father's board
To feed, and starve, on miserable husks,
—A long Apology—Concilio
Pro Tridentino—of the Council, and
Decrees of Trent: with many other matters,
Fully discoursed. Which books, whoe'er will read them,
May at the Fair in Frankfort easily
Obtain, thro' any merchant of this town.
And I have visited the greater part
Of Europe. I have traversed Italy,
Whereof no city is to me unknown,
Nor I to it. In Holland, Germany,
And England, every University
I have both seen, and sometime studied there.
Nay, was I not the chosen and the chief
Disciple of the English Carmelite
John Bacon, prince of the Averröists?
So that . . . albeit I would not have you deem
I in pretension do exceed the pith
And marrow of performance, nor indeed
That, whatsoe'er it may be I have done,
I have done more than any man may do,
Let him but love, as I loved, Learning more
Than house, or lands, or any other good,
(Albeit such fervour is not to be found
In men of insufficient elements)
. . . . I dare affirm what I erewhile averr'd,
That whatsoe'er a man may know, I know.
Lucilio Vanini, whom you know
Already by no casual report,
Have by much study, travel, and strong thought,
Master'd in some few thirty years, or less,
Philosophy, and physics: medicals:
Theology; and law, in both its branches,
The civil and the canon (for who knows not
That in utroque jure I am Doctor?)
All schools of East or West: anatomy:
Mechanics: mathematics: music: all
Poets, grammarians, and historians:
212
Astrology: with what from these a man
May further fashion, in the advance of time,
By sharp experience of himself, to add
Knowledge to knowledge. Also I have writ
On Free Will, Fate, and Providence, confuting
Whatever was by others said before
Upon these subjects, and constraining those
That read my books to burn their own: besides
Two dialogues on the contempt of glory
Which, that I do not crave a vain renown
But have sought Science for her own sweet sake,
Shall witness for me to all candid minds:
And,—so you shall not fear that I indulge
Such froward spirit as our Holy Church
Not seldom in her children hath reproved,
Prodigals that forsake the Father's board
To feed, and starve, on miserable husks,
—A long Apology—Concilio
Pro Tridentino—of the Council, and
Decrees of Trent: with many other matters,
Fully discoursed. Which books, whoe'er will read them,
May at the Fair in Frankfort easily
Obtain, thro' any merchant of this town.
And I have visited the greater part
Of Europe. I have traversed Italy,
Whereof no city is to me unknown,
Nor I to it. In Holland, Germany,
213
I have both seen, and sometime studied there.
Nay, was I not the chosen and the chief
Disciple of the English Carmelite
John Bacon, prince of the Averröists?
So that . . . albeit I would not have you deem
I in pretension do exceed the pith
And marrow of performance, nor indeed
That, whatsoe'er it may be I have done,
I have done more than any man may do,
Let him but love, as I loved, Learning more
Than house, or lands, or any other good,
(Albeit such fervour is not to be found
In men of insufficient elements)
. . . . I dare affirm what I erewhile averr'd,
That whatsoe'er a man may know, I know.
And as for Pomponat, men's present Mentor,
He, and Averröes, whom he but follows
—(Altho' I would not count them less than kings
Whose erudition and audacity
Hath made them half to be esteem'd as gods)
Let these, with Cardan, and I will not name
How many more that be their vavasours,
Sit at my feet forever, and be dumb!
My worst is better than the best of theirs.
(Believe I do not boast!) for they, indeed,
Have but rough-guess'd the ways which I have paved
With ponderous fact, and irrefragable
Results, accumulated carefully,
To distances divined not by these men.
Which you shall also, if you will, reach with me:
For what I know I would to all make known:
And what I have would share with who will have it:
Since knowledge by division grows to more.
Is it not written that the Teachers—they
That have turn'd many to the light—shall shine
Like stars in heaven? Which shine not for themselves
But for the illumination of mankind.
Only believe me!
He, and Averröes, whom he but follows
—(Altho' I would not count them less than kings
Whose erudition and audacity
Hath made them half to be esteem'd as gods)
Let these, with Cardan, and I will not name
How many more that be their vavasours,
Sit at my feet forever, and be dumb!
My worst is better than the best of theirs.
(Believe I do not boast!) for they, indeed,
Have but rough-guess'd the ways which I have paved
214
Results, accumulated carefully,
To distances divined not by these men.
Which you shall also, if you will, reach with me:
For what I know I would to all make known:
And what I have would share with who will have it:
Since knowledge by division grows to more.
Is it not written that the Teachers—they
That have turn'd many to the light—shall shine
Like stars in heaven? Which shine not for themselves
But for the illumination of mankind.
Only believe me!
Yet, for all, I see
That you do think I boast myself beyond
The stretch of my deserving. If, good friends,
You deem it thus, believe me you do wrong
Me first,—and, in the consequence, yourselves!
For I conceive there's nothing more beseems
A teacher, than assurance of the worth
Of what he teaches, and his own to teach it.
On these two points behoves the man to have
No doubt whatever. If he doubt himself,
Let him be dumb and put belief in others.
For all his right to speak is in the right
Of what he can speak to be boldly spoken:
And, therefore, reverently listen'd to.
Whence, if his worth be furnish'd with fair titles
Both to his own, and other men's, good credence,
He cannot too conspicuously show them.
There's nought but such conviction as rejects
All question of it, that what's now to say
Is better worth the saying than all else
By others said before it, justifies
Infraction of that silence which befits
A man in presence of the universe,
The stars above him, and the graves below.
Therefore, my masters, I am bold to speak:
This boldness (which, were it less positive,
Would stand in silence) being, as you see,
The only right which I admit myself
To speak at all. Be mine bold speech, or none.
That you do think I boast myself beyond
The stretch of my deserving. If, good friends,
You deem it thus, believe me you do wrong
Me first,—and, in the consequence, yourselves!
For I conceive there's nothing more beseems
A teacher, than assurance of the worth
Of what he teaches, and his own to teach it.
On these two points behoves the man to have
No doubt whatever. If he doubt himself,
Let him be dumb and put belief in others.
For all his right to speak is in the right
Of what he can speak to be boldly spoken:
And, therefore, reverently listen'd to.
Whence, if his worth be furnish'd with fair titles
215
He cannot too conspicuously show them.
There's nought but such conviction as rejects
All question of it, that what's now to say
Is better worth the saying than all else
By others said before it, justifies
Infraction of that silence which befits
A man in presence of the universe,
The stars above him, and the graves below.
Therefore, my masters, I am bold to speak:
This boldness (which, were it less positive,
Would stand in silence) being, as you see,
The only right which I admit myself
To speak at all. Be mine bold speech, or none.
Oh! I have seen in Professorial Chairs
How much of mock humility, lip-lowliness
Mouthing it thus . . . . . ‘The Grace of God forbid
‘We should be overbold to lay rough hands
On any man's opinion. For opinions
Are, certes, venerable properties,
And those which show the most decrepitude
Should have the gentlest handling. Yes, good sirs,
We have that sort of courtesy about us,
We would not, flatly, call a fool a fool,
Nor wrong all wrong, nor right entirely right,
Lest we affirm too much. you shall not find us
Of such an overweening arrogance
That we should swear, because we are disposed
To this or that conclusion, that it needs
Must better yours. We think that we are right:
We may be wrong: we doubt you are in error:
You may be right. Civility forbids
Insistance on harsh terms.’ Civility
Therefore goes sidling, with a glance asquint
'Twixt true and false, along her slippery road,
Which is the road to Hell, the Home of Lies!
How much of mock humility, lip-lowliness
Mouthing it thus . . . . . ‘The Grace of God forbid
‘We should be overbold to lay rough hands
On any man's opinion. For opinions
Are, certes, venerable properties,
And those which show the most decrepitude
Should have the gentlest handling. Yes, good sirs,
We have that sort of courtesy about us,
We would not, flatly, call a fool a fool,
Nor wrong all wrong, nor right entirely right,
Lest we affirm too much. you shall not find us
Of such an overweening arrogance
216
To this or that conclusion, that it needs
Must better yours. We think that we are right:
We may be wrong: we doubt you are in error:
You may be right. Civility forbids
Insistance on harsh terms.’ Civility
Therefore goes sidling, with a glance asquint
'Twixt true and false, along her slippery road,
Which is the road to Hell, the Home of Lies!
For wherefore should we call you here, to gaze
In sober earnest, and some shuddering,
Upon this dreadful combat of the gods,
—This conflict of resistant Error arm'd
Against resistless Truth, on all sides round,
Not ended till the world be won or lost?
Why bid you mark severe Minerva there?
Here snaky Typhon,—both at horrible handgrips?
If, to assuage amazement, and restore
The careless satisfaction we were bold
Thus to break-in on with the horrid news,
We lightly whisper,—just when the heart stops
And the veins tighten with the hideous thought
Of what's depending on the deadly issue,—
‘Friends, here's no cause to fear yon grisly god,
For all his savage show his claws be clipp'd.
Athene's angry spear can draw no blood,
It being button'd like your fencing foils.
And this tremendous spectacle, which shakes
The ample theatres of Heaven and Hell,
Is but a mock-heroic at the most.’
Ye gods! if this be thus, and only thus,
Why then, I cry i' the name of all men's patience,
You impudent knaves that play the herald's part,
Sound ye your brawling trumpets in our ears
So shrilly? Why do you, unmannerly thus,
Rouse us from slumber, scare us from our business
Of feasting, fooling, and forgetting all things,
To cry the house a-fire? Or why drag hither
Grave men, grown men, grey men, with cares enough,
And griefs enough, and grievances enough,
To try the nerves of those that have the stoutest,
Merely to cheat us of our hard-earned rest
With your preposterous puppetings!
In sober earnest, and some shuddering,
Upon this dreadful combat of the gods,
—This conflict of resistant Error arm'd
Against resistless Truth, on all sides round,
Not ended till the world be won or lost?
Why bid you mark severe Minerva there?
Here snaky Typhon,—both at horrible handgrips?
If, to assuage amazement, and restore
The careless satisfaction we were bold
Thus to break-in on with the horrid news,
We lightly whisper,—just when the heart stops
And the veins tighten with the hideous thought
Of what's depending on the deadly issue,—
‘Friends, here's no cause to fear yon grisly god,
For all his savage show his claws be clipp'd.
Athene's angry spear can draw no blood,
It being button'd like your fencing foils.
And this tremendous spectacle, which shakes
The ample theatres of Heaven and Hell,
219
Ye gods! if this be thus, and only thus,
Why then, I cry i' the name of all men's patience,
You impudent knaves that play the herald's part,
Sound ye your brawling trumpets in our ears
So shrilly? Why do you, unmannerly thus,
Rouse us from slumber, scare us from our business
Of feasting, fooling, and forgetting all things,
To cry the house a-fire? Or why drag hither
Grave men, grown men, grey men, with cares enough,
And griefs enough, and grievances enough,
To try the nerves of those that have the stoutest,
Merely to cheat us of our hard-earned rest
With your preposterous puppetings!
Yet will some wise and moderate good man
Make answer that to no one living soul
Is absolute truth vouchsafed, and this alone
Is absolutely certain. Granted, friend.
Yet he is absolutely right or wrong
That dares, or dares not, follow to the end
And utterly use the whole o' the truth he hath.
For there be many that, in face of Truth
Fear her imperative aspect, and affirm
‘This customary falsehood is a thing
More safe than that uncustomary truth,’
Or ‘only thus and thus much of the truth
‘Is competent of usage,’ having not
Within themselves true love of truth, nor yet
The courage of the consequence of thought.
This is the approved philosophy of fools,
Of which you shall hear nothing from my lips,
For half-truths need no teaching from this chair.
The craft of cowardice, the world's vile promptings,
The glare of false authority, the fear
Of exile, prisons, halters, and the rack,
These teach the customary compromise
Twixt true and false; and find in every land
Sufficient school, without the added weight
Of verdict from the lips of men, not vile
By nature, who, tho' none regard their speech,
Must speak undaunted, or not speak at all.
Most men, indeed, believe in something better
Than their own actions: and conciliate
The world, by acting worse than they believe:
And all men even their best actions base
On something worse than is their best Belief:
Yet hope to mollify the scorn of God,
Because their thoughts are better than their acts,
And their beliefs more blameless than their lives.
This needs no teaching. This is the world's wisdom.
But, when the Teacher speaks, he speaks as one
That knows his audience in the universe
Is not of this world only: but perchance
Millions of starry spirits beyond the sun
Pause o'er their planetary toil to lean
And listen to him. If he speak the truth
Truly, his speech is as a trenchant sword
To cut the world asunder to the heart,
And take its stealthy secrets by surprise.
So let him stand up stern, as on a rock,
Like Joshua when he held the sun and moon
In Ajalon and Gibeon, till he ceased
To smite the Amorite before the Lord.
No more ignoble powers, no lesser laws
Can hurt his sacred head whom Nature's own
Eternal and divine supremacies
Safeguard with unseen cohorts to the end.
Make answer that to no one living soul
Is absolute truth vouchsafed, and this alone
Is absolutely certain. Granted, friend.
Yet he is absolutely right or wrong
That dares, or dares not, follow to the end
And utterly use the whole o' the truth he hath.
For there be many that, in face of Truth
Fear her imperative aspect, and affirm
‘This customary falsehood is a thing
More safe than that uncustomary truth,’
Or ‘only thus and thus much of the truth
‘Is competent of usage,’ having not
Within themselves true love of truth, nor yet
The courage of the consequence of thought.
This is the approved philosophy of fools,
Of which you shall hear nothing from my lips,
For half-truths need no teaching from this chair.
217
The glare of false authority, the fear
Of exile, prisons, halters, and the rack,
These teach the customary compromise
Twixt true and false; and find in every land
Sufficient school, without the added weight
Of verdict from the lips of men, not vile
By nature, who, tho' none regard their speech,
Must speak undaunted, or not speak at all.
Most men, indeed, believe in something better
Than their own actions: and conciliate
The world, by acting worse than they believe:
And all men even their best actions base
On something worse than is their best Belief:
Yet hope to mollify the scorn of God,
Because their thoughts are better than their acts,
And their beliefs more blameless than their lives.
This needs no teaching. This is the world's wisdom.
But, when the Teacher speaks, he speaks as one
That knows his audience in the universe
Is not of this world only: but perchance
Millions of starry spirits beyond the sun
Pause o'er their planetary toil to lean
And listen to him. If he speak the truth
Truly, his speech is as a trenchant sword
To cut the world asunder to the heart,
And take its stealthy secrets by surprise.
So let him stand up stern, as on a rock,
218
In Ajalon and Gibeon, till he ceased
To smite the Amorite before the Lord.
No more ignoble powers, no lesser laws
Can hurt his sacred head whom Nature's own
Eternal and divine supremacies
Safeguard with unseen cohorts to the end.
Good friends,
I will not use you thus, I warrant you.
But you shall have hard fighting, and real blows,
Not dealt in vain. For, by the help of God,
We will this day Goliaths more than one
Destroy forever from the Field of Truth.
—If you'll believe me!
I will not use you thus, I warrant you.
But you shall have hard fighting, and real blows,
Not dealt in vain. For, by the help of God,
We will this day Goliaths more than one
Destroy forever from the Field of Truth.
—If you'll believe me!
—Nay! but neither think,
Because I have put off humility
Before I stept into this Chair of Doctrine,
That therefore I, with idle arrogance
Aspire to hit the stars; revering not
The worth of modest-mindedness in man.
Not so. I have been humble more than most.
Whiles I was yet a learning, I was humble.
Then, my humility was such as suits
A lover when he sues: which I put off
To clothe me with the pride that lover feels
When afterwards, he having won that woo'd,
His love lives in possession. I might tell
Of days and nights of painful patientness
In Padua; when, a beardless boy, I braved
Sharp winter's biting in a threadbare coat,
And, late and early, trimm'd a lonely lamp
With toilful tendance: sat at all men's feet:
And read from all men's books right reverently:
And lived to learn: and learn'd from all that lived:
And held myself the least of little ones,
Not worthy to be seated at the board,
Grateful to cram what charitable crumbs
Fell from o'erflowing trenchers to my lot;
While nothing but the daily doled-out crust
(A frail and miserable alms!) appeased
The begging of the body, barely heard.
But love makes warmth and fulness everywhere.
The lover lives on love luxuriously,
And lacks for nothing. O be very sure
That no man will learn anything at all,
Unless he first will learn humility.
The humblest mounts the highest. Who would scale
The skyey Alp must go afoot. The vain
And arrogant man may drive his gilded coach
Across the plain, gazed by the servile crowd,
But, would he mount that mighty eminence,
He must alight, and foot it with slow steps.
Therefore I say . . . Be humble,—to be high!
Because I have put off humility
Before I stept into this Chair of Doctrine,
That therefore I, with idle arrogance
Aspire to hit the stars; revering not
220
Not so. I have been humble more than most.
Whiles I was yet a learning, I was humble.
Then, my humility was such as suits
A lover when he sues: which I put off
To clothe me with the pride that lover feels
When afterwards, he having won that woo'd,
His love lives in possession. I might tell
Of days and nights of painful patientness
In Padua; when, a beardless boy, I braved
Sharp winter's biting in a threadbare coat,
And, late and early, trimm'd a lonely lamp
With toilful tendance: sat at all men's feet:
And read from all men's books right reverently:
And lived to learn: and learn'd from all that lived:
And held myself the least of little ones,
Not worthy to be seated at the board,
Grateful to cram what charitable crumbs
Fell from o'erflowing trenchers to my lot;
While nothing but the daily doled-out crust
(A frail and miserable alms!) appeased
The begging of the body, barely heard.
But love makes warmth and fulness everywhere.
The lover lives on love luxuriously,
And lacks for nothing. O be very sure
That no man will learn anything at all,
Unless he first will learn humility.
The humblest mounts the highest. Who would scale
221
And arrogant man may drive his gilded coach
Across the plain, gazed by the servile crowd,
But, would he mount that mighty eminence,
He must alight, and foot it with slow steps.
Therefore I say . . . Be humble,—to be high!
And I will tell you—I, that have, O friends,
Read many books, and written not a few,
—This is a secret. Tell it not in Gath,
O very reverend Doctors of Sorbonne!
A man may cram his brains with libraries,
And yet know nothing.
Read many books, and written not a few,
—This is a secret. Tell it not in Gath,
O very reverend Doctors of Sorbonne!
A man may cram his brains with libraries,
And yet know nothing.
Whence comes Knowledge? think!
By reading? No: by thinking on things read.
By seeing? No: by thinking on things seen.
Nor hearing, but by thinking on things heard.
Yet half the first-class writers I have read
Are merely setters forth—not of their own,
But other men's stale thinkings: second-hand
Employers of spent brains! Is Thought so easy?
Try!
By reading? No: by thinking on things read.
By seeing? No: by thinking on things seen.
Nor hearing, but by thinking on things heard.
Yet half the first-class writers I have read
Are merely setters forth—not of their own,
But other men's stale thinkings: second-hand
Employers of spent brains! Is Thought so easy?
Try!
Take some simple, obvious object here,
And think it. Think the wall.
And think it. Think the wall.
What! you are silent?
You cannot?
You cannot?
Yet altho' you cannot think
This simple wall that stares you in the face,
You can think Plato and Pythagoras,
Zeno, and Aristotle, Epicurus,
Plotinus, Jamblicus, Themistius,
Thales, Parmenides,—and the Lord knows whom.
That is to say, you can think second-hand.
Well then, O friends, now let us learn to think!
Think anything. But only think. For, see you?
There's nothing of so singular, nor mean
Condition in this universe, but what
It doth include, and, in a sort, continue
The fact of something greater than itself,
Nay, of the Very Greatest. Nothing is,
But by the having been of something else,
Which something else, the cause of this thing here,
Is, in its turn, the effect of something elsewhere.
Thus we the higher in the lower perceive:
From each obtain intelligence of all:
And find in all the consciousness of each.
For all which is, by reason that it is,
And is itself, not other than itself,
Defines itself; and, being definite,
Must be perceivable at some one point,
If but no more, on which perception acts,
Whether of bodily sense, or mental force.
Away, then, with the indefinite, from thought,
Which is the non-existent. What exists,
Acts; and what acts gives notice of itself
To all existence, acting thus or thus
Conformably to laws that govern all
Existence. Acts are laws: no law, no act.
Therefore, be sure that whatsoever is
Man's thought is competent, if not to know,
At least to know of. And the Infinite
Appears, reported by its parts, to be
The Finite infinitely multiplied,
Extended infinitely every way.
This simple wall that stares you in the face,
222
Zeno, and Aristotle, Epicurus,
Plotinus, Jamblicus, Themistius,
Thales, Parmenides,—and the Lord knows whom.
That is to say, you can think second-hand.
Well then, O friends, now let us learn to think!
Think anything. But only think. For, see you?
There's nothing of so singular, nor mean
Condition in this universe, but what
It doth include, and, in a sort, continue
The fact of something greater than itself,
Nay, of the Very Greatest. Nothing is,
But by the having been of something else,
Which something else, the cause of this thing here,
Is, in its turn, the effect of something elsewhere.
Thus we the higher in the lower perceive:
From each obtain intelligence of all:
And find in all the consciousness of each.
For all which is, by reason that it is,
And is itself, not other than itself,
Defines itself; and, being definite,
Must be perceivable at some one point,
If but no more, on which perception acts,
Whether of bodily sense, or mental force.
Away, then, with the indefinite, from thought,
Which is the non-existent. What exists,
Acts; and what acts gives notice of itself
To all existence, acting thus or thus
223
Existence. Acts are laws: no law, no act.
Therefore, be sure that whatsoever is
Man's thought is competent, if not to know,
At least to know of. And the Infinite
Appears, reported by its parts, to be
The Finite infinitely multiplied,
Extended infinitely every way.
Think, and all things become confederates
To the thought in you. For the Thinking-Power
Is of such pregnant faculty, it imbues
All things, or can from all things extricate,
And stir to answerable activity,
Some portion of the essential consciousness.
Upon the dumb, long inarticulate earth
Descends the gift of prophecy and tongues:
The smallest fact—the last in consequence
Of the supreme procession of events,
—Mere garniture of life's superfluous pomp,
Becomes a willing spy upon the track
Of its more potent predecessor, gone
Most likely in a grand indifference by:
The dust grows dainty with divinity:
The limpet has surmises of the huge
Enormous-back'd sea-violencing-whale:
He, of Behemoth in the days when God
Held colloquies upon the Chaldee plains
With the vex'd Uzzite: the dull-hearted ox
Hath in him legends of his father-race,
Those monstrous and imaginary forms
That frighten'd Adam when the bitten fruit
Turn'd sour between his teeth, and thunder lower'd.
The sandgrain in his dreams, divines the stars.
The very stones are garrulously given
And babble to each other in the moon
The story of the waters that of old
Roll'd Noë's ark on Ararat. Perchance
The poising of a pebble that a child
Sends from his sling in swift parabola,
Interprets in a tongue that's yet to learn
The fiat that gave motion to the stars.
So that this volatile fluid of the brain
This flux of thought, like streams compell'd to seek
The level of their sources, flowing forth
No matter by what channels, thro' what fields,
Is by each course constrain'd towards the height
From whence it issued, and mounts up to God.
To the thought in you. For the Thinking-Power
Is of such pregnant faculty, it imbues
All things, or can from all things extricate,
And stir to answerable activity,
Some portion of the essential consciousness.
Upon the dumb, long inarticulate earth
Descends the gift of prophecy and tongues:
The smallest fact—the last in consequence
Of the supreme procession of events,
—Mere garniture of life's superfluous pomp,
Becomes a willing spy upon the track
Of its more potent predecessor, gone
Most likely in a grand indifference by:
The dust grows dainty with divinity:
The limpet has surmises of the huge
Enormous-back'd sea-violencing-whale:
He, of Behemoth in the days when God
Held colloquies upon the Chaldee plains
224
Hath in him legends of his father-race,
Those monstrous and imaginary forms
That frighten'd Adam when the bitten fruit
Turn'd sour between his teeth, and thunder lower'd.
The sandgrain in his dreams, divines the stars.
The very stones are garrulously given
And babble to each other in the moon
The story of the waters that of old
Roll'd Noë's ark on Ararat. Perchance
The poising of a pebble that a child
Sends from his sling in swift parabola,
Interprets in a tongue that's yet to learn
The fiat that gave motion to the stars.
So that this volatile fluid of the brain
This flux of thought, like streams compell'd to seek
The level of their sources, flowing forth
No matter by what channels, thro' what fields,
Is by each course constrain'd towards the height
From whence it issued, and mounts up to God.
Ha! there you smile, and bring your faces all
To bear on mine; like men who, unawares,
And by a sudden happy chance, detect
In some familiar object, grown a blank
By being look'd at carelessly too often,
A novel feature, not before divulged.
Why, this is well. And, since we all are here
To use our wits, friends, let us use them sharply
And to some purpose: not as your mere swords
Of ceremony, shut up safe in velvet,
Tawdry and tedious appendages,
Put on for show, and put aside for comfort!
I see you take my humour by this time.
Good! and your faces brighten, and your eyes
Glitter, as stars do in a good sharp wind.
Sharp? why, what else should be the atmosphere
Of vigorous spirits?
To bear on mine; like men who, unawares,
And by a sudden happy chance, detect
In some familiar object, grown a blank
By being look'd at carelessly too often,
A novel feature, not before divulged.
Why, this is well. And, since we all are here
225
And to some purpose: not as your mere swords
Of ceremony, shut up safe in velvet,
Tawdry and tedious appendages,
Put on for show, and put aside for comfort!
I see you take my humour by this time.
Good! and your faces brighten, and your eyes
Glitter, as stars do in a good sharp wind.
Sharp? why, what else should be the atmosphere
Of vigorous spirits?
You believe me, friends?
You do believe me!
You do believe me!
Ay, I always felt
That I should find in France my own compeers,
The finest and most eager spirits of men!
Some guiding angel drew me in my dreams
To choose this land for my abiding home.
I loved you ere I knew you: know you now,
And, having known you, love you better still.
Gather, then, close about me, all of you!
You, there, bright youth with sunbeams in your hair,
And you, grave sir, with eyes like icicles,
Come round me, one and all . . . close! closer still!
Let not a word escape!
That I should find in France my own compeers,
The finest and most eager spirits of men!
Some guiding angel drew me in my dreams
To choose this land for my abiding home.
I loved you ere I knew you: know you now,
And, having known you, love you better still.
Gather, then, close about me, all of you!
You, there, bright youth with sunbeams in your hair,
And you, grave sir, with eyes like icicles,
Come round me, one and all . . . close! closer still!
Let not a word escape!
We will discourse
This day of the Eternal Providence.
Clap all your pens to paper, and write down:—
This day of the Eternal Providence.
Clap all your pens to paper, and write down:—
226
‘Amphitheatrum Providentiæ
Eternæ christiano-physicum,
Divino-magicum, astrologico-
Catholicum; adversus veteres
Philosophos, peripateticos,
Epicureos, atheos, stoicos.’
Eternæ christiano-physicum,
Divino-magicum, astrologico-
Catholicum; adversus veteres
Philosophos, peripateticos,
Epicureos, atheos, stoicos.’
Good! Have you written? Now attend.
We thus
Begin with the Beginning. Which is God.
Begin with the Beginning. Which is God.
Lucilio (self-styled Julius Cæsar, and Pompeius) Vanini, was one of that numerous Army of Martyrs who have been canonized by no Church. Murdered by the Parliament of Toulouse upon an infamous and unfounded charge of Atheism, his memory has been calumniated by the few and forgotten by the many. I think that no reader of his ‘Dialogues’ will accuse me of exaggerating the vanity of the man. It was excessive, but not ignoble: and to it I am disposed to attribute much of the heroism with which he endured torture and faced death. When we remember that his martyrdom and murder were justified by their perpetrators on the grounds of the audacious freedom with which Vanini had expressed unorthodox opinions, the excessive caution and timidity of all his writings significantly illustrate what was considered “Freedom of thought” in the Sixteenth Century. On being accused of Atheism by his judges, he picked a straw from the ground, and proceeded, by arguments which would probably have satisfied Paley, to demonstrate the existence of God from the existence of the straw. Those arguments, however, did not satisfy the Tribunal, which condemned him, first to have his tongue cut out, and then to be burned alive. He went through it all, and died, “cheerfully for the sake of Philosophy,” as he said, with a heroism, never surpassed and rarely equalled by any of those martyrs who are admired as brave men because they died in vindication—not of Doubt— but of a Faith, which promised them immediate beatitude. Yet consider the difference!
227
JOHN PETER CARAFA.
(HONORES MUTANT MORES.) A.D. 15—.
[_]
[“Quelle . . . che sono fatti per amministrare le cose spirituali non hanno bisogno di niente.”—Letters of Cardinal Carafa. Caracciolo MSS. “Tal era il furore e la cupidigia dei Carafa, che pareva fossero tornati i tempi dei Borgia.”— Botta, Storia di Italia, lib. ix. p. 226.]
1
John Peter, Count of Madalone, sonOf Count John Anthony Carafa, fled
From Rome, indignant at the evil done
By wolves that on the fold of Christ were fed:
2
And gave himself to Poverty and God:And with firm footstep, pure, severe, and sad,
The untrodden paths of abnegation trod,
Poor amidst wealth, and grieved by evil glad.
228
3
The fame of his fair life, and fervid faith,Grew with the growing evil of the time,
And sounded as the archangelic breath,
Blown thro' Heaven's trump, in challenge to Earth's crime.
4
The Holy Father of the Faithful thought‘My counsellor shall be this saintly man,
As God is his:’ and many a time besought
John Peter's presence at the Vatican.
5
But to the sinful city he had fledWith feet that, wing'd by indignation, shook
Rome's dust away, the self-made exile said
‘The spirit that is within me will not brook
6
‘To breathe the breath of thy polluted air.’Howbeit, when God's Viceregent sent from Rome
Command to him to come, in place of prayer,
Loyal to his high lord, he groan'd ‘I come.’
7
And, being at Rome, to one that loved him,—thereHe wrote . . . ‘In all this evil lump no leaven
‘Is left: but it is evil everywhere:
And here man's heart fears neither Hell nor Heaven.
229
8
‘My sister, I have lived to loathe this life,And call on Death to lead my spirit home.
Death hears me not. God's will prolongs the strife
My sad soul wages with the sins of Rome.’ .
9
Sometimes the high hand of His HolinessDoth, for the ennobling of the Church, dispense
Honours whereby a good man's lowliness
Is raised into a great man's Eminence:
10
But, in the Church's pious customs never(Nor the traditions, nor the usages
Of immemorial Rome, wherein forever
As the tradition so the usage is)
11
Prescription, precedent, or practice show'dThat, if the head of its recipient
Were housed in Rome, to the man's own abode
A scarlet hat might properly be sent.
230
12
This pauper Priest was made a Cardinal:The Pope's own envoy bore the scarlet hat
To his poor house: and found not wherewithal,
(Save the one stool where its lone inmate sat)
13
In that bare lodge, that wanted all save worth,To place the gift: whose stern recipient gazed
Ungladden'd, and from thankless doors drave forth
The messenger unmonied and amazed.
14
At length one Pope, and then another, died:And Cardinal Carafa, after these,
Became a Pope, himself. The whole world cried
‘'Tis well! for he is worthy of the keys.’
15
Simple, austere, men knew him. Pure his name,And praised his virtues. Nobly born was he,
Yet not ignobly known. His ample fame
Was spotless. Worthier Pope there could not be.
231
16
‘The luxury of the new Pope's table’ (writesA Venice envoy to the Vatican)
‘Is more than may be dream'd of. All delights
With all magnificences this proud man
17
‘Mingles in one. The daintiest viands graceThe costliest dishes, the most sumptuous wines
From the most gorgeous goblets flow to chase
Care from the banquet where his splendour shines:
18
‘Good cheer he loves: and lustily he eatsAnd deep he drinks: right royal is his tone:
The mightiest monarchs of the world he treats
As clots of common dust beneath his throne:
19
‘His daily drink is butts of burning blackFierce Naples wine, and cups of Malvoisie.
Methinks his belly is but a Bacchus' sack.
And his least meal meats five and twenty be.
232
20
‘Wondrous his wealth is. Of his noble birthSo proud is he, and of his present state,
That even as tho' he scorn'd to tread on earth
Is the high going of his haughty gait.
21
‘His nephews are the richest lords in Rome.And, for the greatness of the power they have,
Many there be that flatter them, and some
That in dark wishes dig them a deep grave.’
22
Dame History is so old, she knows not wellPresent from Past. She loves to say her say
Till it is stale, and the same story tell
To-morrow as she told it yesterday.
Letters to his Sister: selected by M. Charles de Samm from the MS. collection of the Duke of Policastro
“Jamais Pape n'avait envoyé la barrette à un prélat présent à Rome’, . . . . “Tel était la pauvreté du nouveau Cardinal qu'il n'y avait dans sa petite chambre de meuble convenable pour y poser la barrette, et qu'il n'avait rien à offrir à l'envoyé du Pape chargé de la lui remetter. Tout Rome en parlait et s'en etonnait.”—Caracciolo MS.
233
PICAROONS.
1593.
1
Who gallops by night, when the owl is about?O who, fellows, who but the bold Picaroon?
Short shrift for the lord, and a rope for the lout,
And 'tis merry to ride by the light of the moon,
With hey, fellows, hey!
2
The Provost of Flanders look'd woeful to see(With hey, fellows, hey for the bold Picaroon!)
Black Jack, his own knave, in the hollow oak tree
Roasting alive by the light of the moon,
With hey, fellows, hey!
3
Be it Dutchman or Spaniard, all fowl is fair game:Belted Flanders Militiaman: Brabant Dragoon:
Where's the jack knave o' them fears not the name
O' the roaming night-rider, the bold Picaroon?
And hey, fellows, hey!
234
CHRISTIAN, THE DOL-HARTZOG.
(SO CALLED FROM HIS FURIOUS BEHAVIOUR.) 1660.
Christian, Duke of Brunswick, and Bishop of Halberstadt,
For a token of love, wore a lady's glove, in the loop of his riding-hat.
For he had seen the Bohemian Queen in England; and, they say,
In the sole soft part of his rock-rough heart, slept the memory of that day.
For Christian, the Dol-Hartzog, was half a brute at the best,
With but little space for a lady's face to lie and be loved in his breast.
Yet he may have loved well, for he hated well (tho' he showed his hate like a beast,
With tooth and claw), and the thing of things that he hated most was a priest.
He maul'd the monk, and flay'd the friar, nor left the abbot a rag,
And “Gottes Freund and Pfaffern Feind,” was the boast on his battle flag.
Yet he worshipt God in his own wild way—as a beast might worship too—
Simply by thoroughly doing the work which God had set him to do:
With never a Pater noster said, never a candle burn'd,
And never a pleni gratia, for any good gift return'd.
Worship no better than any beast's! yet with reverence, too, to spare,
Of its own dumb kind, in the silent mind, for what God made gentle and fair.
At least, from one touch I argue as much in this wild man of Halberstadt,
Since, for token of love, a pure lady's glove he wore in his riding-hat.
For a token of love, wore a lady's glove, in the loop of his riding-hat.
For he had seen the Bohemian Queen in England; and, they say,
In the sole soft part of his rock-rough heart, slept the memory of that day.
For Christian, the Dol-Hartzog, was half a brute at the best,
With but little space for a lady's face to lie and be loved in his breast.
Yet he may have loved well, for he hated well (tho' he showed his hate like a beast,
With tooth and claw), and the thing of things that he hated most was a priest.
He maul'd the monk, and flay'd the friar, nor left the abbot a rag,
235
Yet he worshipt God in his own wild way—as a beast might worship too—
Simply by thoroughly doing the work which God had set him to do:
With never a Pater noster said, never a candle burn'd,
And never a pleni gratia, for any good gift return'd.
Worship no better than any beast's! yet with reverence, too, to spare,
Of its own dumb kind, in the silent mind, for what God made gentle and fair.
At least, from one touch I argue as much in this wild man of Halberstadt,
Since, for token of love, a pure lady's glove he wore in his riding-hat.
Christian, the Dol-Hartzog, came riding to Paderborn;
And his men were dropping for lack of bread, and his horses for lack of corn.
Not a crown-piece in the coffer, either bread or corn to buy!
“What shall we do, Duke Christian? ”“Anything, friends, but die!”
“The Saints us save,” saith some one, “for we are weary and faint.”
“'Sdeath! and so they shall, good fellows! Who is the Paderborn Saint?”
“The Paderborn Saint is the Saint Liboire; and his image stands by itself
As large as life in the church, all cover'd with jewels and pelf.”
“The Saint Liboire is a saint of saints, for he to our pious wishes
Shall accord a final miracle in the way of the loaves and fishes!
Faith! since he hath jewels, and since he hath pelf, he shall buy us both bread and corn,
And if ever I swear by a saint, it shall be by the Saint of Paderborn.”
And his men were dropping for lack of bread, and his horses for lack of corn.
Not a crown-piece in the coffer, either bread or corn to buy!
“What shall we do, Duke Christian? ”“Anything, friends, but die!”
“The Saints us save,” saith some one, “for we are weary and faint.”
“'Sdeath! and so they shall, good fellows! Who is the Paderborn Saint?”
236
As large as life in the church, all cover'd with jewels and pelf.”
“The Saint Liboire is a saint of saints, for he to our pious wishes
Shall accord a final miracle in the way of the loaves and fishes!
Faith! since he hath jewels, and since he hath pelf, he shall buy us both bread and corn,
And if ever I swear by a saint, it shall be by the Saint of Paderborn.”
Christian, the Dol-Hartzog, rode on into Munster town,
There, in the great Cathedral (greater for their renown!)
Carven in silver, and cover'd with gold (truly a glorious band!)
Round the altar, all in a row, the Twelve Apostles stand.
Christian, the Dol-Hartzog, call'd his captains of war—
“We will visit these Twelve Apostles, and see how their worships are,”
Then they all went clanking together (godless knaves as they were)
Over the sacred flintstones, up to the altar stair:
Never a De profundis was heard, never an anthem sung,
But where, thro' great glooms, 'twixt the solemn tombs, those iron footsteps rung,
Each priest, like a ghost, from that grizzly host, patter'd off o'er the pavement stone,
And the iron men and the silver saints stood face to face and alone.
To that Sacred Dozen, thro' a silence frozen, strode the wild man of Halberstadt,
As when Brennus the Gaul stalkt into the hall where the Roman senators sat.
The Duke loves little speaking; but he made, that day, a speech
To those Twelve Apostles, as pregnant as any the preacher can preach;
For, “You Twelve Apostles,” said he, “for many a year and a day
“How is it that you have dared your Master to disobey—
Who bade you ‘ite per orbem,’ go about in the world where ye can,
From city to city for ever, succouring every man?
But you, yet unmoved by the mandate, you slothful and rascally crew!
Stand there stock-still, letting others be stript to give succour to you.
Therefore, about your business! down instantly all, and disperse!
Comfort the needy! circulate freely! profit the universe!
The better to serve which purpose, divinely ordain'd from of old,
I hereby will and command both ye and your ill-gotten gold
To assume the shape of Rix-thalers!”
There, in the great Cathedral (greater for their renown!)
Carven in silver, and cover'd with gold (truly a glorious band!)
Round the altar, all in a row, the Twelve Apostles stand.
Christian, the Dol-Hartzog, call'd his captains of war—
“We will visit these Twelve Apostles, and see how their worships are,”
Then they all went clanking together (godless knaves as they were)
Over the sacred flintstones, up to the altar stair:
Never a De profundis was heard, never an anthem sung,
But where, thro' great glooms, 'twixt the solemn tombs, those iron footsteps rung,
237
And the iron men and the silver saints stood face to face and alone.
To that Sacred Dozen, thro' a silence frozen, strode the wild man of Halberstadt,
As when Brennus the Gaul stalkt into the hall where the Roman senators sat.
The Duke loves little speaking; but he made, that day, a speech
To those Twelve Apostles, as pregnant as any the preacher can preach;
For, “You Twelve Apostles,” said he, “for many a year and a day
“How is it that you have dared your Master to disobey—
Who bade you ‘ite per orbem,’ go about in the world where ye can,
From city to city for ever, succouring every man?
But you, yet unmoved by the mandate, you slothful and rascally crew!
Stand there stock-still, letting others be stript to give succour to you.
Therefore, about your business! down instantly all, and disperse!
Comfort the needy! circulate freely! profit the universe!
The better to serve which purpose, divinely ordain'd from of old,
238
To assume the shape of Rix-thalers!”
The Apostles had nothing to say,
As it seems, in defence of themselves. They at least were obliged to obey.
At dawn they were down from their niches; ere night on their mission they sped;
And the broken were bound up and heal'd, and the hungry were speedily fed.
This way Duke Christian affirm'd, little heeding Apostles or Priests,
That the first great need of a man is—to feed: after the fashion of beasts!
But, since even the beasts must work, Duke Christian thought, I suspect,
If Apostles are made to work also, Apostles mustn't object.
As it seems, in defence of themselves. They at least were obliged to obey.
At dawn they were down from their niches; ere night on their mission they sped;
And the broken were bound up and heal'd, and the hungry were speedily fed.
This way Duke Christian affirm'd, little heeding Apostles or Priests,
That the first great need of a man is—to feed: after the fashion of beasts!
But, since even the beasts must work, Duke Christian thought, I suspect,
If Apostles are made to work also, Apostles mustn't object.
239
ELISABETTA SIRANI.
1665.
Just to begin,—and end! so much,—no more!
To touch upon the very point at last
Where life should cling: to feel the solid shore
Safe; where, the seething sea's strong toil o'erpast,
Peace seem'd appointed; then, with all the store
Half-undivulged of the glean'd ocean cast,
Like a discouraged wave's, on the bleak strand,
Where what appear'd some temple (whose glad Priest
To gather ocean's sparkling gift should stand,
Bidding the wearied wave, from toil releast,
Sleep in the marble harbours bathed with bland
And quiet sunshine, flowing from full east
Among the laurels) proves the dull blind rock's
Fantastic front,—to die, a disallow'd,
Dasht purpose: which the scornful shore-cliff mocks,
Even as it sinks; and all its wealth bestow'd
In vain,—mere food to feed, perchance, stray flocks
Of the coarse sea-gull! weaving its own shroud
Of idle foam, swift ceasing to be seen!
—Sad, sad, my father!...yet it comes to this.
For I am dying. All that might have been—
That must have been!...the days, so hard to miss,
So sure to come!... eyes, lips, that seem'd to lean
In on me at my work, and almost kiss
The curls bow'd o'er it,...lost! Oh, never doubt
I should have lived to know them all again,
And from the crowd of praisers single out
For special love those forms beheld so plain
Beforehand. When my pictures, borne about
Bologna, to the church doors, led their train
Of kindling faces, turn'd, as by they go,
Up to these windows,—standing at your side
Unseen, to see them, I (be sure!) should know
And welcome back those eyes and lips, descried
Long since in fancy: for I loved them so,
And so believed them! Think!...Bologna's pride
My paintings!...Guido Reni's mantle mine...
And I, the maiden artist, prized among
The masters,...ah, that dream was too divine
For earth to realize! I die so young,
All this escapes me! God, the gift be Thine,
Not man's, then...better so! That throbbing throng
Of human faces fades out fast. Even yours,
Belovèd ones, the inexorable Fate
(For all our vow'd affections!) scarce endures
About me. Must I go, then, desolate
Out from among you? Nay, my work ensures
Fit guerdon somewhere,—tho' the gift must wait!
Had I lived longer, life would sure have set
Earth's gift of fame in safety. But I die.
Death must make safe the heavenly guerdon yet.
I trusted time for immortality,—
There was my error! Father, never let
Doubt of reward confuse my memory!
Besides,—I have done much: and what is done
Is well done. All my heart conceived, my hand
Made fast...mild martyr, saint, and weeping nun,
And truncheon'd prince, and warrior with bold brand,
Yet keep my life upon them;—as the sun,
Tho' fallen below the limits of the land,
Still sees on every form of purple cloud
His painted presence.
To touch upon the very point at last
Where life should cling: to feel the solid shore
Safe; where, the seething sea's strong toil o'erpast,
Peace seem'd appointed; then, with all the store
Half-undivulged of the glean'd ocean cast,
Like a discouraged wave's, on the bleak strand,
Where what appear'd some temple (whose glad Priest
To gather ocean's sparkling gift should stand,
Bidding the wearied wave, from toil releast,
Sleep in the marble harbours bathed with bland
And quiet sunshine, flowing from full east
Among the laurels) proves the dull blind rock's
Fantastic front,—to die, a disallow'd,
Dasht purpose: which the scornful shore-cliff mocks,
Even as it sinks; and all its wealth bestow'd
240
Of the coarse sea-gull! weaving its own shroud
Of idle foam, swift ceasing to be seen!
—Sad, sad, my father!...yet it comes to this.
For I am dying. All that might have been—
That must have been!...the days, so hard to miss,
So sure to come!... eyes, lips, that seem'd to lean
In on me at my work, and almost kiss
The curls bow'd o'er it,...lost! Oh, never doubt
I should have lived to know them all again,
And from the crowd of praisers single out
For special love those forms beheld so plain
Beforehand. When my pictures, borne about
Bologna, to the church doors, led their train
Of kindling faces, turn'd, as by they go,
Up to these windows,—standing at your side
Unseen, to see them, I (be sure!) should know
And welcome back those eyes and lips, descried
Long since in fancy: for I loved them so,
And so believed them! Think!...Bologna's pride
My paintings!...Guido Reni's mantle mine...
And I, the maiden artist, prized among
The masters,...ah, that dream was too divine
For earth to realize! I die so young,
All this escapes me! God, the gift be Thine,
Not man's, then...better so! That throbbing throng
Of human faces fades out fast. Even yours,
Belovèd ones, the inexorable Fate
241
About me. Must I go, then, desolate
Out from among you? Nay, my work ensures
Fit guerdon somewhere,—tho' the gift must wait!
Had I lived longer, life would sure have set
Earth's gift of fame in safety. But I die.
Death must make safe the heavenly guerdon yet.
I trusted time for immortality,—
There was my error! Father, never let
Doubt of reward confuse my memory!
Besides,—I have done much: and what is done
Is well done. All my heart conceived, my hand
Made fast...mild martyr, saint, and weeping nun,
And truncheon'd prince, and warrior with bold brand,
Yet keep my life upon them;—as the sun,
Tho' fallen below the limits of the land,
Still sees on every form of purple cloud
His painted presence.
Flaring August's here,
September's coming! Summer's broider'd shroud
Is borne away in triumph by the year:
Red Autumn drops, from all his branches bow'd,
His careless wealth upon the costly bier.
We must be cheerful. Set the casement wide.
One last look o'er the places I have loved,
One last long look!...Bologna, O my pride
Among thy palaced streets! The days have moved
Pleasantly o'er us. What has been denied
To our endeavour? Life goes unreproved.
To make the best of all things, is the best
Of all means to be happy. This I know,
But cannot phrase it finely. The night's rest
The day's toil sweetens. Flowers are warm'd by snow.
All's well God wills. Work out this grief. Joy's zest
Itself is salted with a taste of woe.
There's nothing comes to us may not be borne,
Except a too great happiness. But this
Comes rarely. Tho' I know that you will mourn
The little maiden helpmate you must miss,
Thanks be to God, I leave you not forlorn.
There should be comfort in this dying kiss.
Let Barbara keep my colours for herself.
I'm sorry that Lucia went away
In some unkindness. 'Twas a cheerful elf!
Send her my scarlet ribands, mother; say
I thought of her. My palette's on the shelf,
Surprised, no doubt, at such long holiday.
In the south window, on the easel, stands
My picture for the Empress Eleänore,
Still wanting some few touches, these weak hands
Must leave to others. Yet there's time before
The year ends. And the Empress' own commands
You'll find in writing. Barbara's brush is more
Like mine than Anna's; let her finish it.
Oh,...and there's 'Maso our poor fisherman!
You'll find my work done for him: something fit
To hang among his nets: you liked the plan
My fancy took to please our friend's dull wit,
Scarce brighter than his old tin fishing can....
St. Margaret, stately as a ship full sail,
Leading a dragon by an azure band;
The ribbon flutters gaily in the gale:
The monster follows the Saint's guiding hand,
Wrinkled to one grim smile from head to tail:
For in his horny hide his heart grows bland.
—Where are you, dear ones?....
September's coming! Summer's broider'd shroud
Is borne away in triumph by the year:
Red Autumn drops, from all his branches bow'd,
His careless wealth upon the costly bier.
We must be cheerful. Set the casement wide.
One last look o'er the places I have loved,
One last long look!...Bologna, O my pride
Among thy palaced streets! The days have moved
242
To our endeavour? Life goes unreproved.
To make the best of all things, is the best
Of all means to be happy. This I know,
But cannot phrase it finely. The night's rest
The day's toil sweetens. Flowers are warm'd by snow.
All's well God wills. Work out this grief. Joy's zest
Itself is salted with a taste of woe.
There's nothing comes to us may not be borne,
Except a too great happiness. But this
Comes rarely. Tho' I know that you will mourn
The little maiden helpmate you must miss,
Thanks be to God, I leave you not forlorn.
There should be comfort in this dying kiss.
Let Barbara keep my colours for herself.
I'm sorry that Lucia went away
In some unkindness. 'Twas a cheerful elf!
Send her my scarlet ribands, mother; say
I thought of her. My palette's on the shelf,
Surprised, no doubt, at such long holiday.
In the south window, on the easel, stands
My picture for the Empress Eleänore,
Still wanting some few touches, these weak hands
Must leave to others. Yet there's time before
The year ends. And the Empress' own commands
You'll find in writing. Barbara's brush is more
Like mine than Anna's; let her finish it.
Oh,...and there's 'Maso our poor fisherman!
243
To hang among his nets: you liked the plan
My fancy took to please our friend's dull wit,
Scarce brighter than his old tin fishing can....
St. Margaret, stately as a ship full sail,
Leading a dragon by an azure band;
The ribbon flutters gaily in the gale:
The monster follows the Saint's guiding hand,
Wrinkled to one grim smile from head to tail:
For in his horny hide his heart grows bland.
—Where are you, dear ones?....
'Tis the dull, faint chill,
Which soon will shrivel into burning pain!
Dear brother, sisters, father, mother—still
Stand near me! While your faces fixt remain
Within my sense, vague fears of unknown ill
Are softly crowded out,...and yet, 'tis vain!
Greet Giulio Banzi; greet Antonio; greet
Bartolomeo, kindly. When I'm gone,
And in the school-room, as of old, you meet,
—Ah, yes! you'll miss a certain merry tone,
A cheerful face, a smile that should complete
The vague place in the household picture grown
To an aspect so familiar, it seems strange
That aught should alter there. Mere life, at least,
Could not have brought the shadow of a change
Across it. Safely the warm years encreast
Among us. I have never sought to range
From our small table at earth's general feast,
To higher places: never loved but you,
Dear family of friends, except my art:
Nor any form save those my pencil drew
E'er quiver'd in the quiet of my heart.
I die a maiden to Madonna true,
And would have so continued....There, the smart,
The pang, the faintness!...
Which soon will shrivel into burning pain!
Dear brother, sisters, father, mother—still
Stand near me! While your faces fixt remain
Within my sense, vague fears of unknown ill
Are softly crowded out,...and yet, 'tis vain!
Greet Giulio Banzi; greet Antonio; greet
Bartolomeo, kindly. When I'm gone,
And in the school-room, as of old, you meet,
—Ah, yes! you'll miss a certain merry tone,
A cheerful face, a smile that should complete
The vague place in the household picture grown
To an aspect so familiar, it seems strange
That aught should alter there. Mere life, at least,
Could not have brought the shadow of a change
Across it. Safely the warm years encreast
244
From our small table at earth's general feast,
To higher places: never loved but you,
Dear family of friends, except my art:
Nor any form save those my pencil drew
E'er quiver'd in the quiet of my heart.
I die a maiden to Madonna true,
And would have so continued....There, the smart,
The pang, the faintness!...
Ever, as I lie
Here, with the Autumn sunset on my face,
And heavy in my curls (whilst it, and I,
Together, slipping softly from the place
We play'd in, pensively prepare to die)
A low warm humming simmers in my ears,
—Old summer afternoons! faint fragments rise
Out of my broken life...at times appears
Madonna, like a moon in mellow skies:
The three Fates with the spindle and the shears:
The Grand Duke Cosmo with the Destinies:
St. Margaret with her dragon: fitful cheers
Along the Via Urbana come and go:
Bologna with her towers!...Then all grows dim,
And shapes itself anew, softly and slow,
To cloister'd glooms thro' which the silver hymn
Eludes the sensitive silence; whilst below
The south-west window, just one single, slim,
And sleepy sunbeam, powders with waved gold
A lane of gleamy mist along the gloom,
Whereby to find its way, thro' manifold
Magnificence, to Guido Reni's tomb,
Which set in steadfast splendour, I behold.
And all the while, I scent the incense fume,
Till dizzy grows the brain, and dark the eye
Beneath the eyelid. When the end is come,
There, by his tomb (our master's) let me lie,
Somewhere, not too far off; beneath the dome
Of our own Lady of the Rosary:
Safe, where old friends will pass; and still near home!
Here, with the Autumn sunset on my face,
And heavy in my curls (whilst it, and I,
Together, slipping softly from the place
We play'd in, pensively prepare to die)
A low warm humming simmers in my ears,
—Old summer afternoons! faint fragments rise
Out of my broken life...at times appears
Madonna, like a moon in mellow skies:
The three Fates with the spindle and the shears:
The Grand Duke Cosmo with the Destinies:
St. Margaret with her dragon: fitful cheers
Along the Via Urbana come and go:
Bologna with her towers!...Then all grows dim,
And shapes itself anew, softly and slow,
To cloister'd glooms thro' which the silver hymn
Eludes the sensitive silence; whilst below
The south-west window, just one single, slim,
245
A lane of gleamy mist along the gloom,
Whereby to find its way, thro' manifold
Magnificence, to Guido Reni's tomb,
Which set in steadfast splendour, I behold.
And all the while, I scent the incense fume,
Till dizzy grows the brain, and dark the eye
Beneath the eyelid. When the end is come,
There, by his tomb (our master's) let me lie,
Somewhere, not too far off; beneath the dome
Of our own Lady of the Rosary:
Safe, where old friends will pass; and still near home!
Suggested by Mr. T. A. Trollope's charming Biography; which completely disproves the old story of the poisoning.
246
RICHELIEU.
I. THE POETS.
1
All she-creatures that existPower can subdue,
Save the Muse,—that could resist
Cardinal Richelieu.
2
He the War of Thirty YearsWith his right hand led:
Struck the turbulent French peers,
With his left hand, dead.
3
Mad-dog Luther loosed to biteEmperor Charles and Rome:
But the Huguenots held tight,
Kennel-chain'd, at home.
247
4
Greatest man of many great!When to see him came
The Queen Mother, forced to wait,
Stood the royal dame:
5
Round him he, with haughty mienRome's proud purple wrapp'd:
Trembling stood the bare-head Queen:
Richelieu sat capp'd.
6
Only little poets wereGombault, Desmarets,
Colletet, and Boisrobert:
Yet, whenever they
7
Came to see the Cardinal,Each kept on his hat.
Proud as princes, one and all,
These small poets sat:
8
And, while they in critic moodDid his rhymes review,
Trembling and bare-headed stood
Cardinal Richelieu.
248
II THE THREE ESTATES.
1.
The Cardinal to the Clergy cried“Six millions for the State!”
The Archbishop of Sens replied
“God save the King! the great
And ancient rule hath been alway
That for the Public Good
The Clergy pray, the People pay,
The Nobles give their blood.”
2.
‘Good!’ said the Spirit of the Age,‘Give and take is a doctrine sage.’
3.
So, when the Royal Power had needOf more than priestly prayer,
The Nobles for the Throne did bleed:
And then the Nobles were
The masters. When the Royal Power
Said to the People ‘Pay!’
It was their dower that, from that hour,
The masters rested they.
249
4.
‘Good!’ saith the Spirit of the Age,‘Give and take is a doctrine sage.’
III. WALLENSTEIN'S DEATH.
When Richelieu learn'd that Wallenstein was dead,His thin face sharpen'd to an edge. He said
“Soon as the great tree falls, the rabble run
To strip him of his branches one by one.”
250
THE DAUPHIN.
A Palace here, a People there,
Face to face, i' the rainy air:
For the rain is raining heavily,
And the sick day shutting a bloodshot eye.
The People, nowhere a while ago,
Now here, now there, now everywhere.
And, of all in the Palace, none doth know
Where the People may be, ere is done
This last of two disastrous days,
Now waning fast, with watery rays.
Quick, Fancy! ere its light be gone,
From out of the many 'tis darkening on
Save me a single face. This one.
Face to face, i' the rainy air:
For the rain is raining heavily,
And the sick day shutting a bloodshot eye.
The People, nowhere a while ago,
Now here, now there, now everywhere.
And, of all in the Palace, none doth know
Where the People may be, ere is done
This last of two disastrous days,
Now waning fast, with watery rays.
Quick, Fancy! ere its light be gone,
From out of the many 'tis darkening on
Save me a single face. This one.
Broider'd of satin, as best befits,
Is the gilded chair where the urchin sits,
Whose grandsires all earth's greatest were
In grandeur, when the grand were great.
For the childhood of this child is heir
To monarchy's old age.
Is the gilded chair where the urchin sits,
Whose grandsires all earth's greatest were
In grandeur, when the grand were great.
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To monarchy's old age.
The late
Sunbeam, now sinking in his hair
(Weary of strife with a rainy sky)
Faintly, solemnly, lingers there
With a sorrowful glory, soon to die:
As all things must, some day, whene'er
Time disavows them: Time knows why.
Sunbeam, now sinking in his hair
(Weary of strife with a rainy sky)
Faintly, solemnly, lingers there
With a sorrowful glory, soon to die:
As all things must, some day, whene'er
Time disavows them: Time knows why.
O'er kingdoms twain thou wert born to reign,
Bourbon child of the Hapsburg mother!
Life's fairest, one: and earth's, the other:
France, and Youth. Of all the train
Of those the wondering world admires,
Lords and Ladies, Knights and Squires,
Long-robed Senator severe,
Royal Duke, and Princely Peer,
—They whose heads be Heads of France,
To whom, with a sullen countenance,
Hungry hundreds crook the knee,
None but boweth the head to thee,
Little child! Whose face is one
Of a group that all are gone.
Bourbon child of the Hapsburg mother!
Life's fairest, one: and earth's, the other:
France, and Youth. Of all the train
Of those the wondering world admires,
Lords and Ladies, Knights and Squires,
Long-robed Senator severe,
Royal Duke, and Princely Peer,
—They whose heads be Heads of France,
To whom, with a sullen countenance,
Hungry hundreds crook the knee,
None but boweth the head to thee,
Little child! Whose face is one
Of a group that all are gone.
For, since thou, O child, didst flee,
Who knows where? from human sight;
Never child, kingborn, like thee,
Hath been born to absolute right:
Sons of kings no more can be
Guaranteed, as thou wert then,
Of the servitude of men.
Who knows where? from human sight;
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Hath been born to absolute right:
Sons of kings no more can be
Guaranteed, as thou wert then,
Of the servitude of men.
Hearest thou the sounds outside?
Hearest thou the sounds within?
In the neighbouring chamber Pride
Stoops, in colloquy with Fear:
Mounier's loyal cares begin:
Prudence plucks at Lafayette:
Orleans with sulky stride
Is philosophising yet:
Chartres has Louis by the ear:
Necker rubs a ruminant chin.
Outside in the twilight drear
Swells the ominous surly din.
Hearest thou the sounds within?
In the neighbouring chamber Pride
Stoops, in colloquy with Fear:
Mounier's loyal cares begin:
Prudence plucks at Lafayette:
Orleans with sulky stride
Is philosophising yet:
Chartres has Louis by the ear:
Necker rubs a ruminant chin.
Outside in the twilight drear
Swells the ominous surly din.
See! the child is playing now
With his sister's silky tresses:
To whose infantine white brow
Lips as white a mother presses.
Are not children safe from harm,
Circled by a mother's arm?
With his sister's silky tresses:
To whose infantine white brow
Lips as white a mother presses.
Are not children safe from harm,
Circled by a mother's arm?
In the chair where sits the child
Smiling, long since sat and smiled
Him men named the ‘Grand Monarque.’
Ah, the light is fading dark!
Thro' the palace windows wide
What is still so dim descried
In the pale persistent rain?
Smiling, long since sat and smiled
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Ah, the light is fading dark!
Thro' the palace windows wide
What is still so dim descried
In the pale persistent rain?
Is the deluge back again?
And what wreckt world's groaning ark
There emits its monstrous train
To new-people earth with pain?
Men or beasts? What are they? Mark!
Seest thou? hear'st thou, little child?
Haggard faces: women wild:
Men red-handed, blood-defiled:
Heroism, and Hope, and Hate,
Hunger, Horror, Wrath, and Crime,
Mingling in the march of Fate,
Life's grotesque with Love's sublime:
Ragged wretches grim and stark,
Smiling as they never smiled
Till this moment: jaw of shark
Gaping at a drowning ship:
Eye of tiger: lion's grip:
Stormy starvelings, smutcht and soil'd,
Thick thro' garden, court, and park,
Round that palace terrace-piled,
Teeming, tossing, trampling . . . Hark!
First a growl, and then a howl,
Voice of a vast tormented soul,
And then a shrill heart-breaking bark,
And now an immense murtherous roar,
Nearer, drearer, more and more,—
The famisht wild beast's roar for bread!
Suddenly the child's hand ceased
Its sport among the tiny tresses
Of the little golden head
Backward bent to its caresses;
All those tumbled curls released;
While the pouting child-lips said
‘Mother, I am hungry!’
And what wreckt world's groaning ark
There emits its monstrous train
To new-people earth with pain?
Men or beasts? What are they? Mark!
Seest thou? hear'st thou, little child?
Haggard faces: women wild:
Men red-handed, blood-defiled:
Heroism, and Hope, and Hate,
Hunger, Horror, Wrath, and Crime,
Mingling in the march of Fate,
Life's grotesque with Love's sublime:
Ragged wretches grim and stark,
Smiling as they never smiled
Till this moment: jaw of shark
Gaping at a drowning ship:
Eye of tiger: lion's grip:
Stormy starvelings, smutcht and soil'd,
Thick thro' garden, court, and park,
Round that palace terrace-piled,
Teeming, tossing, trampling . . . Hark!
First a growl, and then a howl,
254
And then a shrill heart-breaking bark,
And now an immense murtherous roar,
Nearer, drearer, more and more,—
The famisht wild beast's roar for bread!
Suddenly the child's hand ceased
Its sport among the tiny tresses
Of the little golden head
Backward bent to its caresses;
All those tumbled curls released;
While the pouting child-lips said
‘Mother, I am hungry!’
Cry
Of the Poor man's child, supprest
In a People's starving breast,
For so many wicked years!
Cry, no law could longer smother
In the lawless lifeless past!
By what strange revenge of chance
Didst thou thus ascend so high,
From what depths of woe upcast,
As to smite the heart of a mother,
Heard in the unwilling ears
Of a listening Queen of France,
From a Dauphin's lips at last?
Of the Poor man's child, supprest
In a People's starving breast,
For so many wicked years!
Cry, no law could longer smother
In the lawless lifeless past!
By what strange revenge of chance
Didst thou thus ascend so high,
From what depths of woe upcast,
As to smite the heart of a mother,
Heard in the unwilling ears
Of a listening Queen of France,
From a Dauphin's lips at last?
END OF BOOK VIII.
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