“For in the last is summed the first and all,—
“What thy life last put heart and soul into,
“There shall I taste thy product.” I must plead
This condemnation of a man to-day.
At what we figure as God’s judgment-bar!
None of this vile way by the barren words
Which, more than any deed, characterise
Man as made subject to a curse: no speech— (350)
That still bursts o’er some lie which lurks inside,
As the split skin across the coppery snake,
And most denotes man! since, in all beside,
In hate or lust or guile or unbelief,
Out of some core of truth the excrescence comes,
And, in the last resort, the man may urge
“So was I made, a weak thing that gave way
“To truth, to impulse only strong since true,
“And hated, lusted, used guile, forwent faith.”
But when man walks the garden of this world (360)
For his own solace, and, unchecked by law,
Speaks or keeps silence as himself sees fit,
Without the least incumbency to lie,
—Why, can he tell you what a rose is like,
Or how the birds fly, and not slip to false
Though truth serve better? Man must tell his mate
Of you, me and himself, knowing he lies,
Knowing his fellow knows the same,—will think
“He lies, it is the method of a man!”
And yet will speak for answer “It is truth” (370)
To him who shall rejoin “Again a lie!”
Therefore this filthy rags of speech, this coil
Of statement, comment, query and response,
Tatters all too contaminate for use,
Have no renewing: He, the Truth, is, too,
The Word. We men, in our degree, may know
There, simply, instantaneously, as here
After long time and amid many lies,
Whatever we dare think we know indeed
—That I am I, as He is He,—what else? (380)
But be man’s method for man’s life at least!
Wherefore, Antonio Pignatelli, thou
My ancient self, who wast no Pope so long
But studied God and man, the many years
I’ the school, i’ the cloister, in the diocese
Domestic, legate-rule in foreign lands,—
Thou other force in those old busy days
Than this grey ultimate decrepitude,—
Yet sensible of fires that more and more
Visit a soul, in passage to the sky, (390)
Left nakeder than when flesh-robe was new—
Thou, not Pope but the mere old man o’ the world,
Supposed inquisitive and dispassionate,
Wilt thou, the one whose speech I somewhat trust,
Question the after-me, this self now Pope,
Hear his procedure, criticise his work?
Wise in its generation is the world.
I see him furnished forth for his career,
On starting for the life-chance in our world, (400)
With nearly all we count sufficient help:
Body and mind in balance, a sound frame,
A solid intellect: the wit to seek,
Wisdom to choose, and courage wherewithal
To deal with whatsoever circumstance
Should minister to man, make life succeed.
Oh, and much drawback! what were earth without?
Is this our ultimate stage, or starting-place
To try man’s foot, if it will creep or climb,
’Mid obstacles in seeming, points that prove (410)
Advantage for who vaults from low to high
And makes the stumbling-block a stepping-stone?
So, Guido, born with appetite, lacks food,
Is poor, who yet could deftly play-off wealth,
Straitened, whose limbs are restless till at large:
And, as he eyes each outlet of the cirque,
The narrow penfold for probation, pines
After the good things just outside the grate,
With less monition, fainter conscience-twitch,
Rarer instinctive qualm at the first feel (420)
Of the unseemly greed and grasp undue,
Than nature furnishes the main mankind,—
Making it harder to do wrong than right
The first time, careful lest the common ear
Break measure, miss the outstep of life’s march.
Wherein I see a trial fair and fit
For one else too unfairly fenced about,
Set above sin, beyond his fellows here,
Guarded from the arch-tempter, all must fight,
By a great birth, traditionary name, (430)
Diligent culture, choice companionship,
Above all, conversancy with the faith
Which puts forth for its base of doctrine just
“Man is born nowise to content himself
“But please God.” He accepted such a rule,
Recognised man’s obedience; and the Church,
Which simply is such rule’s embodiment,
He clave to, he held on by,—nay, indeed,
Near pushed inside of, deep as layman durst,
Professed so much of priesthood as might sue (440)
For priest’s-exemption where the layman sinned,—
Got his arm frocked which, bare, the law would bruise.
Hence, at this moment, what’s his last resource,
His extreme stray and utmost stretch of hope
But that,—convicted of such crime as law
Wipes not away save with a worldling’s blood,—
Guido, the three-parts consecrate, may ’scape?
Nay, the portentous brothers of the man
Are veritably priests, protected each
May do his murder in the Church’s pale, (450)
Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo!
This is the man proves irreligiousest
Of all mankind, religion’s parasite!
This may forsooth plead dinned ear, jaded sense,
The vice o’ the watcher who bides near the bell,
Sleeps sound because the clock is vigilant,
And cares not whether it be shade or shine,
Doling out day and night to all men else!
Why was the choice o’ the man to niche himself
Perversely ’neath the tower where Time’s own tongue (460)
Thus undertakes to sermonise the world?
Why, but because the solemn is safe too,
The belfry proves a fortress of a sort,
Has other uses than to teach the hour,
Turns sunscreen, paravent and ombrifuge
To whoso seeks a shelter in
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