You write to me from England, that his name Is now among the mightiest in the world, And in his name I thank you. I am old; And I was very young when, long ago, I stood beside his poor dishonoured grave Where hate denied him even an epitaph; And I have seen, slowly and silently, His purer fame arising, like a moon In marble on the twilight of those aisles At Santa Croce, where the dread decree Was read against him. Now, against two wrongs, Let me defend two victims: first, the Church Whom many have vilified for my master's doom; And second, Galileo, whom they reproach Because they think that in his blind old age He might with one great eagle's glance have cowed His judges, played the hero, raised his hands Above his head, and posturing like a mummer Cried (as one empty rumour now declares) After his recantation--_yet, it moves_! Out of this wild confusion, fourfold wrongs Are heaped on both sides.--I would fain bring peace, The peace of truth to both before I die; And, as I hope, rest at my master's feet. It was not Rome that tried to murder truth; But the blind hate and vanity of man. Had Galileo but concealed the smile With which, like Socrates, he answered fools, They would not, in the name of Christ, have mixed This hemlock in his chalice. O pitiful Pitiful human hearts that must deny Their own unfolding heavens, for one light word Twisted by whispering malice. Did he mean Simplicio, in his dialogues, for the Pope? Doubtful enough--the name was borrowed straight From older dialogues. If he gave one thought Of Urban's to Simplicio--you know well How composite are all characters in books, How authors find their colours here and there, And paint both saints and villains from themselves. No matter. This was Urban. Make it clear. Simplicio means a simpleton. The saints Are aroused by ridicule to most human wrath. Urban was once his friend. This hint of ours Kills all of that. And so we mortals close The doors of Love and Knowledge on the world. And so, for many an age, the name of Christ Has been misused by man to mask man's hate. How should the Church escape, then? I who loved My master, know he had no truer friend Than many of those true servants of the Church, Fathers and priests who, in their lowlier sphere, Moved nearer than her cardinals to the Christ. These were the very Rome, and held her keys. Those who charge Rome with hatred of the light Would charge the sun with darkness, and accuse This dome of sky for all the blood-red wrongs That men commit beneath it. Art and song That found her once in Europe their sole shrine And sanctuary absolve her from that stain.