Posthumous Poems/Pope Celestin and Giordano
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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 you
From this man's red and insolent hands, put forth
To pluck you out of kingdom, set you up
But as a dead thing, as a monument
That boys may spit at. Sir, if you speak of peace,
Best cover up the face of you and weep
Till 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 overbroad
And slip the chain's knot close enough to press
The 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 spring
But 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, see
How the flames twinkle when my hand goes up!
The fingers are but lank as sprays of wood
In the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrowned
On some lean field this bitter March—see, Count,
This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I know
The blessèd tonsure came on it before—
Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no Count
Keeps 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 kill
Or they will smite you on the sacred face,
Discredit you, despoil the chosen gold
On the dear bosom of this mother Church,
Uncover———
Cel.Ah, sir, tell me not of these!
An old man—ere the blessèd knife had shorn
One 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 head
Most quick to peer up sharply—ah, sir, then
It stings the blood thro', verily!
Gio.My lord—
Cel. Ay, then begins to stir and strike and more
God keep us—worries as with angry teeth,
This sensual serpent of the evil flesh,
With its bruised head alive and such keen eyes
And 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 had
Most like a Byzant painter makes
For some saint's face—alas, the hair she had
Which 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 earth
Filled to the lips that used to kiss me once,
Which Mary pardon! so shall I too die
And have my body eaten of cold worms
As Herod—so Christ pardon me the sin!
Gold said you, on her bosom? ah, she wore
An armlet of thin gold, and on her neck
There 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 seize
The Church lands and the Church's wealth, if you
Confirm not, sir, his tyrannous dignity
By the mere seal of strong permission: think
I do beseech you by Queen Mary's might,
What shame, what utter peril there should be
If this thing fall! That henceforth one may say
Trust in the Church and trust, and find no place
Where truth makes head against the violent world—
If you do this: yea, men will violate
Things hidden with securest insolence;
So that between the slayer's bearded mouth
And the chaste lip of reverence there will be
Even such communion as the traitor's kiss,
A present lie for ever.
Cel.Ay, woe's me,
A lie to say—a very bitter lie
To take upon the tongue we pray withal.
Alas, sir, while God keeps us scant of grace,
The body and the body's frail thin sense
Is liable to most dangerous attributes,
Is vulnerable to any sword of sins,
To any craft of Satan's; we should think
We are made of most frail body and weak soul
Mere tools for diabolic usages,
For ministration of man's enemy
Whom God confound! nathless it hath been kept
I say, sir, there be men have seldom sinned
Since 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 book
What have I done—whereof I take but blame
Seeing there is no profit in me, none,
Nor in my service: verily I think
The 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 grace
I may speak with the Cardinal Orsino
As in your name; he loves me well, there's none
Of 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 Christ
Hath done more service, is more ripe for grace.
He hath looked seldom on the evil thing
To hunger for it in the bond of lust
Or violence of the keen iniquitous will:
I'll send him letters—yea, a man of grace,
A pillar fairly carven of wrought stone
All builded without hammer, clean and fair
To do God honour, and accredit us
The builder of him: for his judgment, sir,
That shall you test, but all grow old in time.
Ay, soon or late God fashions us anew
By some good pattern; so shall all get made
Fit to be welded stone by shapen stone
Into the marvellous Jerusalem wall
That shall be builded. A good man, I said,
But somewhat older than he was, meseems,
That shall you notice; let him not suspect
That 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 night
And is not honoured. Come, sir, you shall go:
I pray God prosper you, and overcome
The evil of your body, by his grace.
Also the Cardinal, that he may speak
Things 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.
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 you
From this man's red and insolent hands, put forth
To pluck you out of kingdom, set you up
But as a dead thing, as a monument
That boys may spit at. Sir, if you speak of peace,
Best cover up the face of you and weep
Till 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 overbroad
And slip the chain's knot close enough to press
The 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 spring
But 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, see
How the flames twinkle when my hand goes up!
The fingers are but lank as sprays of wood
In the late snow-time, eh, or blades embrowned
On some lean field this bitter March—see, Count,
This grey hair comes on all! ay, well I know
The blessèd tonsure came on it before—
Ay, thin scalp, said you! yea, but, sir, no Count
Keeps 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 kill
Or they will smite you on the sacred face,
Discredit you, despoil the chosen gold
On the dear bosom of this mother Church,
Uncover———
Cel.Ah, sir, tell me not of these!
An old man—ere the blessèd knife had shorn
One 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 head
Most quick to peer up sharply—ah, sir, then
It stings the blood thro', verily!
Gio.My lord—
Cel. Ay, then begins to stir and strike and more
God keep us—worries as with angry teeth,
This sensual serpent of the evil flesh,
With its bruised head alive and such keen eyes
And 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 had
Most like a Byzant painter makes
For some saint's face—alas, the hair she had
Which 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 earth
Filled to the lips that used to kiss me once,
Which Mary pardon! so shall I too die
And have my body eaten of cold worms
As Herod—so Christ pardon me the sin!
Gold said you, on her bosom? ah, she wore
An armlet of thin gold, and on her neck
There 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 seize
The Church lands and the Church's wealth, if you
Confirm not, sir, his tyrannous dignity
By the mere seal of strong permission: think
I do beseech you by Queen Mary's might,
What shame, what utter peril there should be
If this thing fall! That henceforth one may say
Trust in the Church and trust, and find no place
Where truth makes head against the violent world—
If you do this: yea, men will violate
Things hidden with securest insolence;
So that between the slayer's bearded mouth
And the chaste lip of reverence there will be
Even such communion as the traitor's kiss,
A present lie for ever.
Cel.Ay, woe's me,
A lie to say—a very bitter lie
To take upon the tongue we pray withal.
Alas, sir, while God keeps us scant of grace,
The body and the body's frail thin sense
Is liable to most dangerous attributes,
Is vulnerable to any sword of sins,
To any craft of Satan's; we should think
We are made of most frail body and weak soul
Mere tools for diabolic usages,
For ministration of man's enemy
Whom God confound! nathless it hath been kept
I say, sir, there be men have seldom sinned
Since 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 book
What have I done—whereof I take but blame
Seeing there is no profit in me, none,
Nor in my service: verily I think
The 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 grace
I may speak with the Cardinal Orsino
As in your name; he loves me well, there's none
Of 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 Christ
Hath done more service, is more ripe for grace.
He hath looked seldom on the evil thing
To hunger for it in the bond of lust
Or violence of the keen iniquitous will:
I'll send him letters—yea, a man of grace,
A pillar fairly carven of wrought stone
All builded without hammer, clean and fair
To do God honour, and accredit us
The builder of him: for his judgment, sir,
That shall you test, but all grow old in time.
Ay, soon or late God fashions us anew
By some good pattern; so shall all get made
Fit to be welded stone by shapen stone
Into the marvellous Jerusalem wall
That shall be builded. A good man, I said,
But somewhat older than he was, meseems,
That shall you notice; let him not suspect
That 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 night
And is not honoured. Come, sir, you shall go:
I pray God prosper you, and overcome
The evil of your body, by his grace.
Also the Cardinal, that he may speak
Things 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.