Posthumous Poems/Pope Celestin and Giordano
POPE CELESTIN AND GIORDANO
Gio. These matters are but shadows of the truth, Mean indications; time will shew, my lord, Our wrong lies deeper. Cel.Proofs—ay, proofs you say— Let me see that, sir: I'll believe your proof: What must I do? what stirs you up to give This dead dissension teeth to bite again?And I am old; my body is no wall For you to shoot behind at emperors: Ay, the keen spirit eats the flesh like fire, It's mere slow poison, this my dignity, Consumes me; ah, you're just a man, my Count, Cannot conceive how God's will overcomes, How the Church bears one's very soul to hold And stoops the shoulders; then, we're set to pray Save you your souls, gather you fruit of prayer, Not whet you fresh blades when blood mars the old: Ah, what must we do? Gio. But, your Holiness Imagines not we seek your wrong in this:Our words are meant to save God's Church and youFrom this man's red and insolent hands, put forthTo pluck you out of kingdom, set you upBut as a dead thing, as a monumentThat boys may spit at. Sir, if you speak of peace,Best cover up the face of you and weepTill he be here: it may be he will say"Throw me that hoar scalp to the dogs," or else"Nay, find him some low cell not overbroadAnd slip the chain's knot close enough to pressThe lean old wrist and elbow:" this may be. Cel. This! Oh, God help me, but how cold it gets!Why—but I think, by Venus, it's no springBut winter comes to pinch us by the chin.—Are not we vicar of the Son of God?Are not we lord of you and him? Ha, seeHow the flames twinkle when my hand goes up!The fingers are but lank as sprays of woodIn the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrownedOn some lean field this bitter March—see, Count,This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I knowThe blessèd tonsure came on it before—Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no CountKeeps always dark hair, not so thick as yours,God help it! Gio. I beseech your Holiness Even by the sweet blood of your Lord the Christ,Believe me this is perilous to say:You talk of things that either you must killOr they will smite you on the sacred face,Discredit you, despoil the chosen goldOn the dear bosom of this mother Church,Uncover——— Cel.Ah, sir, tell me not of these!An old man—ere the blessèd knife had shornOne black top curl, I might have answered you;I was too young—eh well, suppose men talk,What matter? there's a lie in each man's mouth.Yea "dixi" said God's blessed Psalmist once"Dixi," that's where the choir breaks out full breath,Makes half the sweet smoke ripple graciously,Praising God's mother in delicious wise.Ah, sir, be very tender of such words;The trampled flesh is like a hurt snake's headMost quick to peer up sharply—ah, sir, thenIt stings the blood thro', verily! Gio.My lord— Cel. Ay, then begins to stir and strike and moreGod keep us—worries as with angry teeth,This sensual serpent of the evil flesh,With its bruised head alive and such keen eyesAnd such a large mouth with lean lips astir.Ah, sir, be very tender of the flesh! Gold said you, gold? there was hair once she hadMost like a Byzant painter makesFor some saint's face—alas, the hair she hadWhich now red worms have eaten to the roots!Ah, flesh is weaker than a rich man's breath,An old man's hand with fingers shut like these—The mouth she had which years ago black earthFilled to the lips that used to kiss me once,Which Mary pardon! so shall I too dieAnd have my body eaten of cold wormsAs Herod—so Christ pardon me the sin!Gold said you, on her bosom? ah, she woreAn armlet of thin gold, and on her neckThere was a plait she had of threaded yellow silk—And all this has been done with many years,And will not come again. I grow so old,So old and sick, alas the evil flesh! Gio. I told your Holiness of Henry's aim,His aim assured and evident, to seizeThe Church lands and the Church's wealth, if youConfirm not, sir, his tyrannous dignityBy the mere seal of strong permission: thinkI do beseech you by Queen Mary's might,What shame, what utter peril there should beIf this thing fall! That henceforth one may sayTrust in the Church and trust, and find no place Where truth makes head against the violent world—If you do this: yea, men will violateThings hidden with securest insolence;So that between the slayer's bearded mouthAnd the chaste lip of reverence there will beEven such communion as the traitor's kiss,A present lie for ever. Cel.Ay, woe's me,A lie to say—a very bitter lieTo take upon the tongue we pray withal.Alas, sir, while God keeps us scant of grace,The body and the body's frail thin senseIs liable to most dangerous attributes,Is vulnerable to any sword of sins,To any craft of Satan's; we should thinkWe are made of most frail body and weak soulMere tools for diabolic usages,For ministration of man's enemyWhom God confound! nathless it hath been keptI say, sir, there be men have seldom sinnedSince the pure vow made clean their fleshly lips:To God ascribe the praise, my son, not me;Yea, be it written for me in God's bookWhat have I done—whereof I take but blameSeeing there is no profit in me, none,Nor in my service: verily I thinkThe keeper of God's house is more than I,Who have but served him these hoar eighty years With barren service. Gio.(Ay, past help of mine!)I pray you then, my lord, that of your graceI may speak with the Cardinal OrsinoAs in your name; he loves me well, there's noneOf more swift judgment and deliberate act,Nor who serves justice better. Cel.Yea, my lord,You shall have letters to the cardinal;A good man, who hath slain the flesh of sin—A good man, certainly no son of ChristHath done more service, is more ripe for grace.He hath looked seldom on the evil thingTo hunger for it in the bond of lustOr violence of the keen iniquitous will:I'll send him letters—yea, a man of grace,A pillar fairly carven of wrought stoneAll builded without hammer, clean and fairTo do God honour, and accredit usThe builder of him: for his judgment, sir,That shall you test, but all grow old in time.Ay, soon or late God fashions us anewBy some good pattern; so shall all get madeFit to be welded stone by shapen stoneInto the marvellous Jerusalem wallThat shall be builded. A good man, I said,But somewhat older than he was, meseems,That shall you notice; let him not suspectThat I misdoubt him, sir; he hath been wise Fulfilled of grace and wisdom: but our time Is as a day—as half a day with God:Yea, as a watch that passeth in the nightAnd is not honoured. Come, sir, you shall go: I pray God prosper you, and overcomeThe evil of your body, by his grace.Also the Cardinal, that he may speakThings worthy, which shall worthily be heard For without wisdom are we as the grass Which the sun withers: yea, our sojourn here Is as a watch that passeth in the night.