First of the first
Such I pronounce Pompilia, then as now
Perfect in whiteness--stoop thou down, my child
Give one good moment to the poor old Pope
Heart-sick at having all his world to blame--
Let me look at thee in the flesh as erst
Let me enjoy the old clean linen garb
Not the new splendid vesture! Armed and crowned
Would Michael, yonder, be, nor crowned nor armed
The less pre-eminent angеl? Everywhere
I see in thе world the intellect of man
That sword, the energy his subtle spear
The knowledge which defends him like a shield--
Everywhere; but they make not up, I think
The marvel of a soul like thine, earth's flower
She holds up to the softened gaze of God!
It was not given Pompilia to know much
Speak much, to write a book, to move mankind
Be memorised by who records my time
Yet if in purity and patience, if
In faith held fast despite the plucking fiend
Safe like the signet-stone with the new name
That saints are known by,--if in right returned
For wrong, most pardon for worst injury
If there be any virtue, any praise,--
Then will this woman-child have proved--who knows?--
Just the one prize vouchsafed unworthy me
Ten years a gardener of the untoward ground
I till,--this earth, my sweat and blood manure
All the long day that barrenly grows dusk:
At least one blossom makes me proud at eve
Born ’mid the briers of my enclosure!