Chapter 9

Sp.Per ora.To the Grand Canal.Afterwards e’en as fancy shall.Di.Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah,What else is like the gondola?This level floor of liquid glassBegins beneath us swift to pass.It goes as though it went aloneBy some impulsion of its own.(How light it moves, how softly! Ah,Were all things like the gondola!)How light it moves, how softly! Ah,Could life, as does our gondola,Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares,And moral duties and affairs,Unswaying, noiseless, swift and strong,For ever thus—thus glide along!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)With no more motion than should bearA freshness to the languid air;With no more effort than exprestThe need and naturalness of rest,Which we beneath a grateful shadeShould take on peaceful pillows laid!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)In one unbroken passage borneTo closing night from opening morn,Uplift at whiles slow eyes to markSome palace front, some passing bark;Through windows catch the varying shore,And hear the soft turns of the oar!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)So live, nor need to call to mindOur slaving brother here behind!Sp.Pooh! Nature meant him for no betterThan our most humble menial debtor:Who thanks us for his day’s employmentAs we our purse for our enjoyment.Di.To make one’s fellow-man an instrument——Sp.Is just the thing that makes him most content.Di.Our gaieties, our luxuries,Our pleasures and our glee,Mere insolence and wantonness,Alas! they feel to me.How shall I laugh and sing and dance?My very heart recoils,While here to give my mirth a chanceA hungry brother toils.The joy that does not spring from joyWhich I in others see,How can I venture to employ,Or find it joy for me?Sp.Oh come, come, come! By Him that sent us here.Who’s to enjoy at all, pray let us hear?You won’t; he can’t! Oh, no more fuss!What’s it to him, or he to us?Sing, sing away, be glad and gay,And don’t forget that we shall pay.Di.Yes, it is beautiful ever, let foolish men rail at it never.Yes, it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly.Wise are ye others that choose it, and happy ye all that can use it.Life it is beautiful wholly, and could we eliminate onlyThis interfering, enslaving, o’ermastering demon of craving,This wicked tempter inside us to ruin still eager to guide us,Life were beatitude, action a possible pure satisfaction.Sp.(Hexameters, by all that’s odious,Beshod with rhyme to run melodious!)Di.All as I go on my way I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond; very fond, very possibly faithful;All as I go on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingledLife it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly,But for perfection attaining is one method only, abstaining;Let us abstain, for we should so, if only we thought that we could so.Sp.Bravo, bravissimo! this time thoughYou rather were run short for rhyme though;Not that on that account your verseCould be much better or much worse.This world is very odd we see,We do not comprehend it;But in one fact we all agree,God won’t, and we can’t mend it.Being common sense, it can’t be sinTo take it as I find it;The pleasure to take pleasure in;The pain, try not to mind it.Di.O let me love my love unto myself alone,And know my knowledge to the world unknown;No witness to the vision call,Beholding, unbeheld of all;And worship thee, with thee withdrawn, apart,Whoe’er, whate’er thou art,Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heartBetter it were, thou sayest, to consent,Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent;Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure,The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure;In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll,And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul.Nay, better far to mark off thus much air,And call it heaven; place bliss and glory there;Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial sky,And say, what is not, will be by-and-by;What here exists not must exist elsewhere.But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man;Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can.Sp.To these remarks so sage and clerkly,Worthy of Malebranche or Berkeley,I trust it won’t be deemed a sinIf I too answer ‘with a grin.’These juicy meats, this flashing wine,May be an unreal mere appearance;Only—for my inside, in fine,They have a singular coherence.Oh yes, my pensive youth, abstain;And any empty sick sensation.Remember, anything like painIs only your imagination.Trust me, I’ve read your German sageTo far more purpose e’er than you did;You find it in his wisest page,Whom God deludes is well deluded.Di.Where are the great, whom thou would’st wish to praise thee?Where are the pure, whom thou would’st choose to love thee?Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee,Whose high commands would cheer, whose chidings raise thee?Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to findIn the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind.(Written in London, standing in the Park,One evening in July, just before dark.)Sp.As I sat at the café, I said to myself,They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking,But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.I sit at my tableen grand seigneur,And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor;Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good living,But also the pleasure of now and then giving.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.It was but last winter I came up to town,But already I’m getting a little renown;I make new acquaintance where’er I appear;I am not too shy, and have nothing to fear.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.I drive through the streets, and I care not a d——n;The people they stare, and they ask who I am;And if I should chance to run over a cad,I can pay for the damage if ever so bad.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.We stroll to our box and look down on the pit,And if it weren’t low should be tempted to spit;We loll and we talk until people look up,And when it’s half over we go out to sup.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.The best of the tables and the best of the fare—And as for the others, the devil may care;It isn’t our fault if they dare not affordTo sup like a prince and be drunk as a lord.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.We sit at our tables and tipple champagne;Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;The waiters they skip and they scuttle about,And the landlord attends us so civilly out.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.It was but last winter I came up to town,But already I’m getting a little renown;I get to good houses without much ado,Am beginning to see the nobility too.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.O dear! what a pity they ever should lose it!For they are the gentry that know how to use it;So grand and so graceful, such manners, such dinners,But yet, after all, it is we are the winners.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.Thus I sat at my tableen grand seigneur,And when I had done threw a crust to the poor;Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good eating,But also the pleasure of now and then treating.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,And how one ought never to think of one’s self,And how pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking—My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinkingHow pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.(Written in Venice, but for all parts true,’Twas not a crust I gave him, but a sou.)A gondola here, and a gondola there,’Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,And let us repeat, o’er the tide as we wander,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.Come, leave your Gothic, worn-out story,San Giorgio and the Redentore;I from no building, gay or solemn,Can spare the shapely Grecian column.’Tis not, these centuries four, for noughtOur European world of thoughtHath made familiar to its homeThe classic mind of Greece and Rome;In all new work that would look forthTo more than antiquarian worth,Palladio’s pediments and bases,Or something such, will find their places;Maturer optics don’t delightIn childish dim religious light,In evanescent vague effectsThat shirk, not face, one’s intellects;They love not fancies just betrayed,And artful tricks of light and shade,But pure form nakedly displayed,And all things absolutely made.The Doge’s palace though, from hence,In spite of doctrinaire pretence,The tide now level with the quay,Is certainly a thing to see.We’ll turn to the Rialto soon;One’s told to see it by the moon.A gondola here, and a gondola there,’Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,And let us reflect, o’er the flood as we wander,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.Di.How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in moonlight seem to swim!The south side rises o’er our bark,A wall impenetrably dark;The north is seen profusely bright;The water, is it shade or light?Say, gentle moon, which conquers nowThe flood, those massy hulls, or thou?(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Where life but as the gondola!)How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in moonlight seem to swim!In moonlight is it now, or shade?In planes of sure division made,By angles sharp of palace wallsThe clear light and the shadow falls;O sight of glory, sight of wonder!Seen, a pictorial portent, under,O great Rialto, the vast roundOf thy thrice-solid arch profound!(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Life should be as the gondola!)How light we go, how softly——Sp.Nay;Fore heaven, enough of that to-day:I’m deadly weary of your tune,And half-ennuyé with the moon;The shadows lie, the glories fall,And are but moonshine after all.It goes against my conscience reallyTo let myself feel so ideally.Come, for the Piazzetta steer;’Tis nine o’clock or very near.These airy blisses, skiey joysOf vague romantic girls and boys,Which melt the heart and the brain soften,When not affected, as too oftenThey are, remind me, I protest,Of nothing better at the bestThan Timon’s feast to his ancient lovers,Warm water under silver covers;‘Lap, dogs!’ I think I hear him say;And lap who will, so I’m away.Di.How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in moonlight seem to swim!Against bright clouds projected dark,The white dome now, reclined I mark,And, by o’er-brilliant lamps displayed,The Doge’s columns and arcade;Over still waters mildly comeThe distant waters and the hum.(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Life should be as the gondola!)How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in open moonlight swim!Ah, gondolier, slow, slow, more slow!We go; but wherefore thus should go?Ah, let not muscle all too strongBeguile, betray thee to our wrong!On to the landing, onward. Nay,Sweet dream, a little longer stay!On to the landing; here. And, ah!Life is not as the gondola.Sp.Tre ore.So. The ParthenoneIs it? you haunt for your limone.Let me induce you to join me,In gramolate persiche.

Sp.Per ora.To the Grand Canal.Afterwards e’en as fancy shall.

Sp.Per ora.To the Grand Canal.

Afterwards e’en as fancy shall.

Di.Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah,What else is like the gondola?This level floor of liquid glassBegins beneath us swift to pass.It goes as though it went aloneBy some impulsion of its own.(How light it moves, how softly! Ah,Were all things like the gondola!)

Di.Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah,

What else is like the gondola?

This level floor of liquid glass

Begins beneath us swift to pass.

It goes as though it went alone

By some impulsion of its own.

(How light it moves, how softly! Ah,

Were all things like the gondola!)

How light it moves, how softly! Ah,Could life, as does our gondola,Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares,And moral duties and affairs,Unswaying, noiseless, swift and strong,For ever thus—thus glide along!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)

How light it moves, how softly! Ah,

Could life, as does our gondola,

Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares,

And moral duties and affairs,

Unswaying, noiseless, swift and strong,

For ever thus—thus glide along!

(How light we move, how softly! Ah,

Were life but as the gondola!)

With no more motion than should bearA freshness to the languid air;With no more effort than exprestThe need and naturalness of rest,Which we beneath a grateful shadeShould take on peaceful pillows laid!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)

With no more motion than should bear

A freshness to the languid air;

With no more effort than exprest

The need and naturalness of rest,

Which we beneath a grateful shade

Should take on peaceful pillows laid!

(How light we move, how softly! Ah,

Were life but as the gondola!)

In one unbroken passage borneTo closing night from opening morn,Uplift at whiles slow eyes to markSome palace front, some passing bark;Through windows catch the varying shore,And hear the soft turns of the oar!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)

In one unbroken passage borne

To closing night from opening morn,

Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark

Some palace front, some passing bark;

Through windows catch the varying shore,

And hear the soft turns of the oar!

(How light we move, how softly! Ah,

Were life but as the gondola!)

So live, nor need to call to mindOur slaving brother here behind!

So live, nor need to call to mind

Our slaving brother here behind!

Sp.Pooh! Nature meant him for no betterThan our most humble menial debtor:Who thanks us for his day’s employmentAs we our purse for our enjoyment.

Sp.Pooh! Nature meant him for no better

Than our most humble menial debtor:

Who thanks us for his day’s employment

As we our purse for our enjoyment.

Di.To make one’s fellow-man an instrument——

Sp.Is just the thing that makes him most content.

Di.Our gaieties, our luxuries,Our pleasures and our glee,Mere insolence and wantonness,Alas! they feel to me.

Di.Our gaieties, our luxuries,

Our pleasures and our glee,

Mere insolence and wantonness,

Alas! they feel to me.

How shall I laugh and sing and dance?My very heart recoils,While here to give my mirth a chanceA hungry brother toils.

How shall I laugh and sing and dance?

My very heart recoils,

While here to give my mirth a chance

A hungry brother toils.

The joy that does not spring from joyWhich I in others see,How can I venture to employ,Or find it joy for me?

The joy that does not spring from joy

Which I in others see,

How can I venture to employ,

Or find it joy for me?

Sp.Oh come, come, come! By Him that sent us here.Who’s to enjoy at all, pray let us hear?You won’t; he can’t! Oh, no more fuss!What’s it to him, or he to us?Sing, sing away, be glad and gay,And don’t forget that we shall pay.

Sp.Oh come, come, come! By Him that sent us here.

Who’s to enjoy at all, pray let us hear?

You won’t; he can’t! Oh, no more fuss!

What’s it to him, or he to us?

Sing, sing away, be glad and gay,

And don’t forget that we shall pay.

Di.Yes, it is beautiful ever, let foolish men rail at it never.Yes, it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly.Wise are ye others that choose it, and happy ye all that can use it.Life it is beautiful wholly, and could we eliminate onlyThis interfering, enslaving, o’ermastering demon of craving,This wicked tempter inside us to ruin still eager to guide us,Life were beatitude, action a possible pure satisfaction.

Di.Yes, it is beautiful ever, let foolish men rail at it never.

Yes, it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly.

Wise are ye others that choose it, and happy ye all that can use it.

Life it is beautiful wholly, and could we eliminate only

This interfering, enslaving, o’ermastering demon of craving,

This wicked tempter inside us to ruin still eager to guide us,

Life were beatitude, action a possible pure satisfaction.

Sp.(Hexameters, by all that’s odious,Beshod with rhyme to run melodious!)

Sp.(Hexameters, by all that’s odious,

Beshod with rhyme to run melodious!)

Di.All as I go on my way I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond; very fond, very possibly faithful;All as I go on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingledLife it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly,But for perfection attaining is one method only, abstaining;Let us abstain, for we should so, if only we thought that we could so.

Di.All as I go on my way I behold them consorting and coupling;

Faithful it seemeth, and fond; very fond, very possibly faithful;

All as I go on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingled

Life it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly,

But for perfection attaining is one method only, abstaining;

Let us abstain, for we should so, if only we thought that we could so.

Sp.Bravo, bravissimo! this time thoughYou rather were run short for rhyme though;Not that on that account your verseCould be much better or much worse.

Sp.Bravo, bravissimo! this time though

You rather were run short for rhyme though;

Not that on that account your verse

Could be much better or much worse.

This world is very odd we see,We do not comprehend it;But in one fact we all agree,God won’t, and we can’t mend it.

This world is very odd we see,

We do not comprehend it;

But in one fact we all agree,

God won’t, and we can’t mend it.

Being common sense, it can’t be sinTo take it as I find it;The pleasure to take pleasure in;The pain, try not to mind it.

Being common sense, it can’t be sin

To take it as I find it;

The pleasure to take pleasure in;

The pain, try not to mind it.

Di.O let me love my love unto myself alone,And know my knowledge to the world unknown;No witness to the vision call,Beholding, unbeheld of all;And worship thee, with thee withdrawn, apart,Whoe’er, whate’er thou art,Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heart

Di.O let me love my love unto myself alone,

And know my knowledge to the world unknown;

No witness to the vision call,

Beholding, unbeheld of all;

And worship thee, with thee withdrawn, apart,

Whoe’er, whate’er thou art,

Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heart

Better it were, thou sayest, to consent,Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent;Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure,The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure;In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll,And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul.

Better it were, thou sayest, to consent,

Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent;

Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure,

The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure;

In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll,

And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul.

Nay, better far to mark off thus much air,And call it heaven; place bliss and glory there;Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial sky,And say, what is not, will be by-and-by;What here exists not must exist elsewhere.But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man;Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can.

Nay, better far to mark off thus much air,

And call it heaven; place bliss and glory there;

Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial sky,

And say, what is not, will be by-and-by;

What here exists not must exist elsewhere.

But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man;

Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can.

Sp.To these remarks so sage and clerkly,Worthy of Malebranche or Berkeley,I trust it won’t be deemed a sinIf I too answer ‘with a grin.’

Sp.To these remarks so sage and clerkly,

Worthy of Malebranche or Berkeley,

I trust it won’t be deemed a sin

If I too answer ‘with a grin.’

These juicy meats, this flashing wine,May be an unreal mere appearance;Only—for my inside, in fine,They have a singular coherence.

These juicy meats, this flashing wine,

May be an unreal mere appearance;

Only—for my inside, in fine,

They have a singular coherence.

Oh yes, my pensive youth, abstain;And any empty sick sensation.Remember, anything like painIs only your imagination.

Oh yes, my pensive youth, abstain;

And any empty sick sensation.

Remember, anything like pain

Is only your imagination.

Trust me, I’ve read your German sageTo far more purpose e’er than you did;You find it in his wisest page,Whom God deludes is well deluded.

Trust me, I’ve read your German sage

To far more purpose e’er than you did;

You find it in his wisest page,

Whom God deludes is well deluded.

Di.Where are the great, whom thou would’st wish to praise thee?Where are the pure, whom thou would’st choose to love thee?Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee,Whose high commands would cheer, whose chidings raise thee?Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to findIn the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind.

Di.Where are the great, whom thou would’st wish to praise thee?

Where are the pure, whom thou would’st choose to love thee?

Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee,

Whose high commands would cheer, whose chidings raise thee?

Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to find

In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind.

(Written in London, standing in the Park,One evening in July, just before dark.)

(Written in London, standing in the Park,

One evening in July, just before dark.)

Sp.As I sat at the café, I said to myself,They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking,But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.

Sp.As I sat at the café, I said to myself,

They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,

They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking,

But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking,

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

I sit at my tableen grand seigneur,And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor;Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good living,But also the pleasure of now and then giving.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

I sit at my tableen grand seigneur,

And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor;

Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good living,

But also the pleasure of now and then giving.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

It was but last winter I came up to town,But already I’m getting a little renown;I make new acquaintance where’er I appear;I am not too shy, and have nothing to fear.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

It was but last winter I came up to town,

But already I’m getting a little renown;

I make new acquaintance where’er I appear;

I am not too shy, and have nothing to fear.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

I drive through the streets, and I care not a d——n;The people they stare, and they ask who I am;And if I should chance to run over a cad,I can pay for the damage if ever so bad.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

I drive through the streets, and I care not a d——n;

The people they stare, and they ask who I am;

And if I should chance to run over a cad,

I can pay for the damage if ever so bad.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

We stroll to our box and look down on the pit,And if it weren’t low should be tempted to spit;We loll and we talk until people look up,And when it’s half over we go out to sup.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

We stroll to our box and look down on the pit,

And if it weren’t low should be tempted to spit;

We loll and we talk until people look up,

And when it’s half over we go out to sup.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

The best of the tables and the best of the fare—And as for the others, the devil may care;It isn’t our fault if they dare not affordTo sup like a prince and be drunk as a lord.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

The best of the tables and the best of the fare—

And as for the others, the devil may care;

It isn’t our fault if they dare not afford

To sup like a prince and be drunk as a lord.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

We sit at our tables and tipple champagne;Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;The waiters they skip and they scuttle about,And the landlord attends us so civilly out.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

We sit at our tables and tipple champagne;

Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;

The waiters they skip and they scuttle about,

And the landlord attends us so civilly out.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

It was but last winter I came up to town,But already I’m getting a little renown;I get to good houses without much ado,Am beginning to see the nobility too.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

It was but last winter I came up to town,

But already I’m getting a little renown;

I get to good houses without much ado,

Am beginning to see the nobility too.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

O dear! what a pity they ever should lose it!For they are the gentry that know how to use it;So grand and so graceful, such manners, such dinners,But yet, after all, it is we are the winners.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

O dear! what a pity they ever should lose it!

For they are the gentry that know how to use it;

So grand and so graceful, such manners, such dinners,

But yet, after all, it is we are the winners.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

Thus I sat at my tableen grand seigneur,And when I had done threw a crust to the poor;Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good eating,But also the pleasure of now and then treating.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.

Thus I sat at my tableen grand seigneur,

And when I had done threw a crust to the poor;

Not only the pleasure, one’s self, of good eating,

But also the pleasure of now and then treating.

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

So pleasant it is to have money.

They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,And how one ought never to think of one’s self,And how pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking—My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinkingHow pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.

They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,

And how one ought never to think of one’s self,

And how pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking—

My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

(Written in Venice, but for all parts true,’Twas not a crust I gave him, but a sou.)

(Written in Venice, but for all parts true,

’Twas not a crust I gave him, but a sou.)

A gondola here, and a gondola there,’Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,And let us repeat, o’er the tide as we wander,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.

A gondola here, and a gondola there,

’Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.

To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,

And let us repeat, o’er the tide as we wander,

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

Come, leave your Gothic, worn-out story,San Giorgio and the Redentore;I from no building, gay or solemn,Can spare the shapely Grecian column.’Tis not, these centuries four, for noughtOur European world of thoughtHath made familiar to its homeThe classic mind of Greece and Rome;In all new work that would look forthTo more than antiquarian worth,Palladio’s pediments and bases,Or something such, will find their places;Maturer optics don’t delightIn childish dim religious light,In evanescent vague effectsThat shirk, not face, one’s intellects;They love not fancies just betrayed,And artful tricks of light and shade,But pure form nakedly displayed,And all things absolutely made.The Doge’s palace though, from hence,In spite of doctrinaire pretence,The tide now level with the quay,Is certainly a thing to see.We’ll turn to the Rialto soon;One’s told to see it by the moon.

Come, leave your Gothic, worn-out story,

San Giorgio and the Redentore;

I from no building, gay or solemn,

Can spare the shapely Grecian column.

’Tis not, these centuries four, for nought

Our European world of thought

Hath made familiar to its home

The classic mind of Greece and Rome;

In all new work that would look forth

To more than antiquarian worth,

Palladio’s pediments and bases,

Or something such, will find their places;

Maturer optics don’t delight

In childish dim religious light,

In evanescent vague effects

That shirk, not face, one’s intellects;

They love not fancies just betrayed,

And artful tricks of light and shade,

But pure form nakedly displayed,

And all things absolutely made.

The Doge’s palace though, from hence,

In spite of doctrinaire pretence,

The tide now level with the quay,

Is certainly a thing to see.

We’ll turn to the Rialto soon;

One’s told to see it by the moon.

A gondola here, and a gondola there,’Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,And let us reflect, o’er the flood as we wander,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.

A gondola here, and a gondola there,

’Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.

To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,

And let us reflect, o’er the flood as we wander,

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!

How pleasant it is to have money.

Di.How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in moonlight seem to swim!The south side rises o’er our bark,A wall impenetrably dark;The north is seen profusely bright;The water, is it shade or light?Say, gentle moon, which conquers nowThe flood, those massy hulls, or thou?(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Where life but as the gondola!)

Di.How light we go, how soft we skim,

And all in moonlight seem to swim!

The south side rises o’er our bark,

A wall impenetrably dark;

The north is seen profusely bright;

The water, is it shade or light?

Say, gentle moon, which conquers now

The flood, those massy hulls, or thou?

(How light we go, how softly! Ah,

Where life but as the gondola!)

How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in moonlight seem to swim!In moonlight is it now, or shade?In planes of sure division made,By angles sharp of palace wallsThe clear light and the shadow falls;O sight of glory, sight of wonder!Seen, a pictorial portent, under,O great Rialto, the vast roundOf thy thrice-solid arch profound!(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Life should be as the gondola!)

How light we go, how soft we skim,

And all in moonlight seem to swim!

In moonlight is it now, or shade?

In planes of sure division made,

By angles sharp of palace walls

The clear light and the shadow falls;

O sight of glory, sight of wonder!

Seen, a pictorial portent, under,

O great Rialto, the vast round

Of thy thrice-solid arch profound!

(How light we go, how softly! Ah,

Life should be as the gondola!)

How light we go, how softly——

Sp.Nay;Fore heaven, enough of that to-day:I’m deadly weary of your tune,And half-ennuyé with the moon;The shadows lie, the glories fall,And are but moonshine after all.It goes against my conscience reallyTo let myself feel so ideally.Come, for the Piazzetta steer;’Tis nine o’clock or very near.These airy blisses, skiey joysOf vague romantic girls and boys,Which melt the heart and the brain soften,When not affected, as too oftenThey are, remind me, I protest,Of nothing better at the bestThan Timon’s feast to his ancient lovers,Warm water under silver covers;‘Lap, dogs!’ I think I hear him say;And lap who will, so I’m away.

Sp.Nay;

Fore heaven, enough of that to-day:

I’m deadly weary of your tune,

And half-ennuyé with the moon;

The shadows lie, the glories fall,

And are but moonshine after all.

It goes against my conscience really

To let myself feel so ideally.

Come, for the Piazzetta steer;

’Tis nine o’clock or very near.

These airy blisses, skiey joys

Of vague romantic girls and boys,

Which melt the heart and the brain soften,

When not affected, as too often

They are, remind me, I protest,

Of nothing better at the best

Than Timon’s feast to his ancient lovers,

Warm water under silver covers;

‘Lap, dogs!’ I think I hear him say;

And lap who will, so I’m away.

Di.How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in moonlight seem to swim!Against bright clouds projected dark,The white dome now, reclined I mark,And, by o’er-brilliant lamps displayed,The Doge’s columns and arcade;Over still waters mildly comeThe distant waters and the hum.(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Life should be as the gondola!)

Di.How light we go, how soft we skim,

And all in moonlight seem to swim!

Against bright clouds projected dark,

The white dome now, reclined I mark,

And, by o’er-brilliant lamps displayed,

The Doge’s columns and arcade;

Over still waters mildly come

The distant waters and the hum.

(How light we go, how softly! Ah,

Life should be as the gondola!)

How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in open moonlight swim!Ah, gondolier, slow, slow, more slow!We go; but wherefore thus should go?Ah, let not muscle all too strongBeguile, betray thee to our wrong!On to the landing, onward. Nay,Sweet dream, a little longer stay!On to the landing; here. And, ah!Life is not as the gondola.

How light we go, how soft we skim,

And all in open moonlight swim!

Ah, gondolier, slow, slow, more slow!

We go; but wherefore thus should go?

Ah, let not muscle all too strong

Beguile, betray thee to our wrong!

On to the landing, onward. Nay,

Sweet dream, a little longer stay!

On to the landing; here. And, ah!

Life is not as the gondola.

Sp.Tre ore.So. The ParthenoneIs it? you haunt for your limone.Let me induce you to join me,In gramolate persiche.

Sp.Tre ore.So. The Parthenone

Is it? you haunt for your limone.

Let me induce you to join me,

In gramolate persiche.

Di.A modern daub it was, perchance,I know not: but the connoisseurFrom Titian’s hues, I dare be sure,Had never turned one kindly glance,Where Byron, somewhat drest-up, drawsHis sword, impatient long, and speaksUnto a tribe of motley GreeksHis fealty to their good cause.Not far, assumed to mystic bliss,Behold the ecstatic Virgin rise!Ah, wherefore vainly, to fond eyesThat melted into tears for this?Yet if we must live, as would seem,These peremptory heats to claim,Ah, not for profit, not for fame,And not for pleasure’s giddy dream,And not for piping empty reeds,And not for colouring idle dust;If live we positively must,God’s name be blest for noble deeds.Verses! well, they are made, so let them go;No more if I can help. This is one wayThe procreant heat and fervour of our youthEscapes, in puff, in smoke, and shapeless wordsOf mere ejaculation, nothing worth,Unless to make maturer years contentTo slave in base compliance to the world.I have scarce spoken yet to this strange followerWhom I picked up—ye great gods, tell me where!And when! for I remember such long years,And yet he seems new come. I commune with myself;He speaks, I hear him, and resume to myself;Whate’er I think, he adds his comments to;Which yet not interrupts me. Scarce I knowIf ever once directly I addressed him:Let me essay it now; for I have strength.Yet what he wants, and what he fain would have,Oh, I know all too surely; not in vain,Although unnoticed, has he dogged my ear.Come, we’ll be definite, explicit, plain;I can resist, I know; and ’twill be wellFor colloquy to have used this manlier mood,Which is to last, ye chances say how longHow shall I call him? Mephistophiles?Sp.I come, I come.Di.So quick, so eager; ha!Like an eaves-dropping menial on my thought,With something of an exultation too, methinks,Out-peeping in that springy, jaunty gait.I doubt about it. Shall I do it? Oh! oh!Shame on me! come! Shall I, my follower,Should I conceive (not that at all I do,’Tis curiosity that prompts my speech)—But should I form, a thing to be supposed,A wish to bargain for your merchandise,Say what were your demands? what were your terms!What should I do? what should I cease to do?What incense on what altars must I burn?And what abandon? what unlearn, or learn?Religion goes, I take it.Sp.Oh,You’ll go to church of course, you know;Or at the least will take a pewTo send your wife and servants to.Trust me, I make a point of that;No infidelity, that’s flat.Di.Religion is not in a pew, say some;Cucullus,youhold,facitmonachum.Sp.Why, as to feelings of devotionI interdict all vague emotion;But if you will, for once and allCompound with ancient JuvenalOrandum est, one perfect prayerFor savoir-vivre and savoir-faire.Theology—don’t recommend you,Unless, turned lawyer, Heaven should send youIn your profession’s way a caseOf Baptism and prevenient grace;But that’s not likely. I’m inclined,All circumstances borne in mind,To think (to keep you in due borders)You’d better enter holy orders.Di.On that, my friend, you’d better not insist.Sp.Well, well, ’tis but a good thing missed.The item’s optional, no doubt;But how to get you bread without?You’ll marry; I shall find the lady.Make your proposal, and be steady.Di.Marry, ill spirit! and at your sole choice?Sp.De rigueur!can’t give you a voice.What matter? Oh, trust one who knows you,You’ll make an admirable sposo.Di.Enough. But action—look to that well, mind me;See that some not unworthy work you find me;If man I be, then give the man expression.Sp.Of course you’ll enter a profession;If not the Church, why then the Law.By Jove, we’ll teach you how to draw!Besides, the best of the concern isI’m hand and glove with the attorneys.With them and me to help, don’t doubtBut in due season you’ll come out;Leave Kelly, Cockburn, in the lurch.But yet, do think about the Church.Di.’Tis well, ill spirit, I admire your wit;As for your wisdom, I shall think of it.And now farewell.

Di.A modern daub it was, perchance,I know not: but the connoisseurFrom Titian’s hues, I dare be sure,Had never turned one kindly glance,

Di.A modern daub it was, perchance,

I know not: but the connoisseur

From Titian’s hues, I dare be sure,

Had never turned one kindly glance,

Where Byron, somewhat drest-up, drawsHis sword, impatient long, and speaksUnto a tribe of motley GreeksHis fealty to their good cause.

Where Byron, somewhat drest-up, draws

His sword, impatient long, and speaks

Unto a tribe of motley Greeks

His fealty to their good cause.

Not far, assumed to mystic bliss,Behold the ecstatic Virgin rise!Ah, wherefore vainly, to fond eyesThat melted into tears for this?

Not far, assumed to mystic bliss,

Behold the ecstatic Virgin rise!

Ah, wherefore vainly, to fond eyes

That melted into tears for this?

Yet if we must live, as would seem,These peremptory heats to claim,Ah, not for profit, not for fame,And not for pleasure’s giddy dream,

Yet if we must live, as would seem,

These peremptory heats to claim,

Ah, not for profit, not for fame,

And not for pleasure’s giddy dream,

And not for piping empty reeds,And not for colouring idle dust;If live we positively must,God’s name be blest for noble deeds.

And not for piping empty reeds,

And not for colouring idle dust;

If live we positively must,

God’s name be blest for noble deeds.

Verses! well, they are made, so let them go;No more if I can help. This is one wayThe procreant heat and fervour of our youthEscapes, in puff, in smoke, and shapeless wordsOf mere ejaculation, nothing worth,Unless to make maturer years contentTo slave in base compliance to the world.

Verses! well, they are made, so let them go;

No more if I can help. This is one way

The procreant heat and fervour of our youth

Escapes, in puff, in smoke, and shapeless words

Of mere ejaculation, nothing worth,

Unless to make maturer years content

To slave in base compliance to the world.

I have scarce spoken yet to this strange followerWhom I picked up—ye great gods, tell me where!And when! for I remember such long years,And yet he seems new come. I commune with myself;He speaks, I hear him, and resume to myself;Whate’er I think, he adds his comments to;Which yet not interrupts me. Scarce I knowIf ever once directly I addressed him:Let me essay it now; for I have strength.Yet what he wants, and what he fain would have,Oh, I know all too surely; not in vain,Although unnoticed, has he dogged my ear.Come, we’ll be definite, explicit, plain;I can resist, I know; and ’twill be wellFor colloquy to have used this manlier mood,Which is to last, ye chances say how longHow shall I call him? Mephistophiles?

I have scarce spoken yet to this strange follower

Whom I picked up—ye great gods, tell me where!

And when! for I remember such long years,

And yet he seems new come. I commune with myself;

He speaks, I hear him, and resume to myself;

Whate’er I think, he adds his comments to;

Which yet not interrupts me. Scarce I know

If ever once directly I addressed him:

Let me essay it now; for I have strength.

Yet what he wants, and what he fain would have,

Oh, I know all too surely; not in vain,

Although unnoticed, has he dogged my ear.

Come, we’ll be definite, explicit, plain;

I can resist, I know; and ’twill be well

For colloquy to have used this manlier mood,

Which is to last, ye chances say how long

How shall I call him? Mephistophiles?

Sp.I come, I come.

Di.So quick, so eager; ha!Like an eaves-dropping menial on my thought,With something of an exultation too, methinks,Out-peeping in that springy, jaunty gait.I doubt about it. Shall I do it? Oh! oh!Shame on me! come! Shall I, my follower,Should I conceive (not that at all I do,’Tis curiosity that prompts my speech)—But should I form, a thing to be supposed,A wish to bargain for your merchandise,Say what were your demands? what were your terms!What should I do? what should I cease to do?What incense on what altars must I burn?And what abandon? what unlearn, or learn?Religion goes, I take it.

Di.So quick, so eager; ha!

Like an eaves-dropping menial on my thought,

With something of an exultation too, methinks,

Out-peeping in that springy, jaunty gait.

I doubt about it. Shall I do it? Oh! oh!

Shame on me! come! Shall I, my follower,

Should I conceive (not that at all I do,

’Tis curiosity that prompts my speech)—

But should I form, a thing to be supposed,

A wish to bargain for your merchandise,

Say what were your demands? what were your terms!

What should I do? what should I cease to do?

What incense on what altars must I burn?

And what abandon? what unlearn, or learn?

Religion goes, I take it.

Sp.Oh,You’ll go to church of course, you know;Or at the least will take a pewTo send your wife and servants to.Trust me, I make a point of that;No infidelity, that’s flat.

Sp.Oh,

You’ll go to church of course, you know;

Or at the least will take a pew

To send your wife and servants to.

Trust me, I make a point of that;

No infidelity, that’s flat.

Di.Religion is not in a pew, say some;Cucullus,youhold,facitmonachum.

Di.Religion is not in a pew, say some;

Cucullus,youhold,facitmonachum.

Sp.Why, as to feelings of devotionI interdict all vague emotion;But if you will, for once and allCompound with ancient JuvenalOrandum est, one perfect prayerFor savoir-vivre and savoir-faire.Theology—don’t recommend you,Unless, turned lawyer, Heaven should send youIn your profession’s way a caseOf Baptism and prevenient grace;But that’s not likely. I’m inclined,All circumstances borne in mind,To think (to keep you in due borders)You’d better enter holy orders.

Sp.Why, as to feelings of devotion

I interdict all vague emotion;

But if you will, for once and all

Compound with ancient Juvenal

Orandum est, one perfect prayer

For savoir-vivre and savoir-faire.

Theology—don’t recommend you,

Unless, turned lawyer, Heaven should send you

In your profession’s way a case

Of Baptism and prevenient grace;

But that’s not likely. I’m inclined,

All circumstances borne in mind,

To think (to keep you in due borders)

You’d better enter holy orders.

Di.On that, my friend, you’d better not insist.

Sp.Well, well, ’tis but a good thing missed.The item’s optional, no doubt;But how to get you bread without?You’ll marry; I shall find the lady.Make your proposal, and be steady.

Sp.Well, well, ’tis but a good thing missed.

The item’s optional, no doubt;

But how to get you bread without?

You’ll marry; I shall find the lady.

Make your proposal, and be steady.

Di.Marry, ill spirit! and at your sole choice?

Sp.De rigueur!can’t give you a voice.What matter? Oh, trust one who knows you,You’ll make an admirable sposo.

Sp.De rigueur!can’t give you a voice.

What matter? Oh, trust one who knows you,

You’ll make an admirable sposo.

Di.Enough. But action—look to that well, mind me;See that some not unworthy work you find me;If man I be, then give the man expression.

Di.Enough. But action—look to that well, mind me;

See that some not unworthy work you find me;

If man I be, then give the man expression.

Sp.Of course you’ll enter a profession;If not the Church, why then the Law.By Jove, we’ll teach you how to draw!Besides, the best of the concern isI’m hand and glove with the attorneys.With them and me to help, don’t doubtBut in due season you’ll come out;Leave Kelly, Cockburn, in the lurch.But yet, do think about the Church.

Sp.Of course you’ll enter a profession;

If not the Church, why then the Law.

By Jove, we’ll teach you how to draw!

Besides, the best of the concern is

I’m hand and glove with the attorneys.

With them and me to help, don’t doubt

But in due season you’ll come out;

Leave Kelly, Cockburn, in the lurch.

But yet, do think about the Church.

Di.’Tis well, ill spirit, I admire your wit;As for your wisdom, I shall think of it.And now farewell.

Di.’Tis well, ill spirit, I admire your wit;

As for your wisdom, I shall think of it.

And now farewell.

The Law! ’twere honester, if ’twere genteel,To say the dung-cart. What! shall I go about,And like the walking shoeblack roam the flagsTo see whose boots are dirtiest? Oh, the luckTo stoop and clean a pair!Religion, if indeed it be in vainTo expect to find in this more modern timeThat which the old world styled, in old-world phraseWalking with God. It seems His newer willWe should not think of Him at all, but trudge it,And of the world He has assigned us makeWhat best we can.Then love: I scarce can thinkThat these be-maddening discords of the mindTo pure melodious sequence could be changed,And all the vext conundrums of our lifeSolved to all time by this old pastoralOf a new Adam and a second EveSet in a garden which no serpent seeks.And yet I hold heart can beat true to heart:And to hew down the tree which bears this fruit,To do a thing which cuts me off from hope,To falsify the movement of Love’s mind,To seat some alien trifler on the throneA queen may come to claim—that were ill done.What! to the close hand of the clutching JewHand up that rich reversion! and for what?This would be hard, did I indeed believe’Twould ever fall. That love, the large reposeRestorative, not to mere outside needsSkin-deep, but throughly to the total man,Exists, I will believe, but so, so rare,So doubtful, so exceptional, hard to guess;When guessed, so often counterfeit; in brief,A thing not possibly to be conceivedAn item in the reckonings of the wise.Action, that staggers me. For I had hoped,’Midst weakness, indolence, frivolity,Irresolution, still had hoped: and thisSeems sacrificing hope. Better to wait:The wise men wait; it is the foolish haste,And ere the scenes are in the slides would play,And while the instruments are tuning, dance.I see Napoleon on the heights intentTo arrest that one brief unit of loose timeWhich hands high Victory’s thread; his marshals fret,His soldiers clamour low: the very gunsSeem going off of themselves; the cannon strainLike hell-dogs in the leash. But he, he waits;And lesser chances and inferior hopesMeantime go pouring past. Men gnash their teeth;The very faithful have begun to doubt;But they molest not the calm eye that seeks’Midst all this huddling silver little worthThe one thin piece that comes, pure gold; he waits.O me, when the great deed e’en now has brokeLike a man’s hand the horizon’s level line,So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds;Oh, in this narrow interspace, this marge,This list and selvage of a glorious time,To despair of the great and sell unto the mean!O thou of little faith, what hast thou done?Yet if the occasion coming should find usUndexterous, incapable? In light thingsProve thou the arms thou long’st to glorify,Nor fear to work up from the lowest ranksWhence come great Nature’s Captains. And high deedsHaunt not the fringy edges of the fight,But the pell-mell of men. Oh, what and ifE’en now by lingering here I let them slip,Like an unpractised spyer through a glass,Still pointing to the blank, too high! And yet,In dead details to smother vital endsWhich would give life to them; in the deft trickOf prentice-handling to forget great art,To base mechanical adroitness yieldThe Inspiration and the Hope a slave!Oh, and to blast that Innocence which, thoughHere it may seem a dull unopening bud,May yet bloom freely in celestial clime!Were it not better done, then, to keep offAnd see, not share, the strife; stand out the waltzWhich fools whirl dizzy in? Is it possible?Contamination taints the idler first;And without base compliance, e’en that sameWhich buys bold hearts free course, Earth lends not theseTheir pent and miserable standing-room.Life loves no lookers-on at his great game,And with boy’s malice still delights to turnThe tide of sport upon the sitters-by,And set observers scampering with their notes.Oh, it is great to do and know not what,Nor let it e’er be known. The dashing streamStays not to pick his steps among the rocks,Or let his water-breaks be chronicled.And though the hunter looks before he leap,’Tis instinct rather than a shaped-out thoughtThat lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail!And farewell hesitation. If I stay,I am not innocent; nor if I go—E’en should I fall—beyond redemption lost.Ah, if I had a course like a full stream,If life were as the field of chase! No, no;The life of instinct has, it seems, gone by,And will not be forced back. And to live nowI must sluice out myself into canals,And lose all force in ducts. The modern HotspurShrills not his trumpet of ‘To Horse, To Horse!’But consults columns in a Railway Guide;A demigod of figures; an AchillesOf computation;A verier Mercury, express come downTo do the world with swift arithmetic.Well, one could bear with that, were the end ours,One’s choice and the correlative of the soul;To drudge were then sweet service. But indeedThe earth moves slowly, if it move at all,And by the general, not the single forceOf the linked members of the vast machine.In all these crowded rooms of industry,No individual soul has loftier leaveThan fiddling with a piston or a valve.Well, one could bear that also: one would drudgeAnd do one’s petty part, and be contentIn base manipulation, solaced stillBy thinking of the leagued fraternity,And of co-operation, and the effectOf the great engine. If indeed it work,And is not a mere treadmill! which it may be.Who can confirm it is not? We ask action.And dream of arms and conflict; and string upAll self-devotion’s muscles; and are setTo fold up papers. To what end? we know not.Other folks do so; it is always done;And it perhaps is right. And we are paid for it,For nothing else we can be. He that eatsMust serve; and serve as other servants do:And don the lacquey’s livery of the house.Oh, could I shoot my thought up to the sky,A column of pure shape, for all to observe!But I must slave, a meagre coral-worm,To build beneath the tide with excrementWhat one day will be island, or be reef,And will feed men, or wreck them. Well, well, well.Adieu, ye twisted thinkings. I submit: it must be.Action is what one must get, it is clear,And one could dream it better than one finds,In its kind personal, in its motive not;Not selfish as it now is, nor as nowMaiming the individual. If we had that,It would cure all indeed. Oh, how would thenThese pitiful rebellions of the flesh,These caterwaulings of the effeminate heart,These hurts of self-imagined dignity,Pass like the seaweed from about the bowsOf a great vessel speeding straight to sea!Yes, if we could have that; but I supposeWe shall not have it, and therefore I submit!Sp.(from within). Submit, submit!’Tis common sense, and human witCan claim no higher name than it.Submit, submit!Devotion, and ideas, and love,And beauty claim their place above;But saint and sage and poet’s dreamsDivide the light in coloured streams,Which this alone gives all combined,Thesiccum lumenof the mindCalled common sense: and no high witGives better counsel than does it.Submit, submit!To see things simply as they areHere at our elbows, transcends farTrying to spy out at middaySome ‘bright particular star,’ which may,Or not, be visible at night,But clearly is not in daylight;No inspiration vague outweighsThe plain good common sense that says,Submit, submit!’Tis common sense, and human witCan ask no higher name than it.Submit, submit!

The Law! ’twere honester, if ’twere genteel,

To say the dung-cart. What! shall I go about,

And like the walking shoeblack roam the flags

To see whose boots are dirtiest? Oh, the luck

To stoop and clean a pair!

Religion, if indeed it be in vain

To expect to find in this more modern time

That which the old world styled, in old-world phrase

Walking with God. It seems His newer will

We should not think of Him at all, but trudge it,

And of the world He has assigned us make

What best we can.

Then love: I scarce can think

That these be-maddening discords of the mind

To pure melodious sequence could be changed,

And all the vext conundrums of our life

Solved to all time by this old pastoral

Of a new Adam and a second Eve

Set in a garden which no serpent seeks.

And yet I hold heart can beat true to heart:

And to hew down the tree which bears this fruit,

To do a thing which cuts me off from hope,

To falsify the movement of Love’s mind,

To seat some alien trifler on the throne

A queen may come to claim—that were ill done.

What! to the close hand of the clutching Jew

Hand up that rich reversion! and for what?

This would be hard, did I indeed believe

’Twould ever fall. That love, the large repose

Restorative, not to mere outside needs

Skin-deep, but throughly to the total man,

Exists, I will believe, but so, so rare,

So doubtful, so exceptional, hard to guess;

When guessed, so often counterfeit; in brief,

A thing not possibly to be conceived

An item in the reckonings of the wise.

Action, that staggers me. For I had hoped,’Midst weakness, indolence, frivolity,Irresolution, still had hoped: and thisSeems sacrificing hope. Better to wait:The wise men wait; it is the foolish haste,And ere the scenes are in the slides would play,And while the instruments are tuning, dance.I see Napoleon on the heights intentTo arrest that one brief unit of loose timeWhich hands high Victory’s thread; his marshals fret,His soldiers clamour low: the very gunsSeem going off of themselves; the cannon strainLike hell-dogs in the leash. But he, he waits;And lesser chances and inferior hopesMeantime go pouring past. Men gnash their teeth;The very faithful have begun to doubt;But they molest not the calm eye that seeks’Midst all this huddling silver little worthThe one thin piece that comes, pure gold; he waits.O me, when the great deed e’en now has brokeLike a man’s hand the horizon’s level line,So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds;Oh, in this narrow interspace, this marge,This list and selvage of a glorious time,To despair of the great and sell unto the mean!O thou of little faith, what hast thou done?Yet if the occasion coming should find usUndexterous, incapable? In light thingsProve thou the arms thou long’st to glorify,Nor fear to work up from the lowest ranksWhence come great Nature’s Captains. And high deedsHaunt not the fringy edges of the fight,But the pell-mell of men. Oh, what and ifE’en now by lingering here I let them slip,Like an unpractised spyer through a glass,Still pointing to the blank, too high! And yet,In dead details to smother vital endsWhich would give life to them; in the deft trickOf prentice-handling to forget great art,To base mechanical adroitness yieldThe Inspiration and the Hope a slave!Oh, and to blast that Innocence which, thoughHere it may seem a dull unopening bud,May yet bloom freely in celestial clime!

Action, that staggers me. For I had hoped,

’Midst weakness, indolence, frivolity,

Irresolution, still had hoped: and this

Seems sacrificing hope. Better to wait:

The wise men wait; it is the foolish haste,

And ere the scenes are in the slides would play,

And while the instruments are tuning, dance.

I see Napoleon on the heights intent

To arrest that one brief unit of loose time

Which hands high Victory’s thread; his marshals fret,

His soldiers clamour low: the very guns

Seem going off of themselves; the cannon strain

Like hell-dogs in the leash. But he, he waits;

And lesser chances and inferior hopes

Meantime go pouring past. Men gnash their teeth;

The very faithful have begun to doubt;

But they molest not the calm eye that seeks

’Midst all this huddling silver little worth

The one thin piece that comes, pure gold; he waits.

O me, when the great deed e’en now has broke

Like a man’s hand the horizon’s level line,

So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds;

Oh, in this narrow interspace, this marge,

This list and selvage of a glorious time,

To despair of the great and sell unto the mean!

O thou of little faith, what hast thou done?

Yet if the occasion coming should find us

Undexterous, incapable? In light things

Prove thou the arms thou long’st to glorify,

Nor fear to work up from the lowest ranks

Whence come great Nature’s Captains. And high deeds

Haunt not the fringy edges of the fight,

But the pell-mell of men. Oh, what and if

E’en now by lingering here I let them slip,

Like an unpractised spyer through a glass,

Still pointing to the blank, too high! And yet,

In dead details to smother vital ends

Which would give life to them; in the deft trick

Of prentice-handling to forget great art,

To base mechanical adroitness yield

The Inspiration and the Hope a slave!

Oh, and to blast that Innocence which, though

Here it may seem a dull unopening bud,

May yet bloom freely in celestial clime!

Were it not better done, then, to keep offAnd see, not share, the strife; stand out the waltzWhich fools whirl dizzy in? Is it possible?Contamination taints the idler first;And without base compliance, e’en that sameWhich buys bold hearts free course, Earth lends not theseTheir pent and miserable standing-room.Life loves no lookers-on at his great game,And with boy’s malice still delights to turnThe tide of sport upon the sitters-by,And set observers scampering with their notes.Oh, it is great to do and know not what,Nor let it e’er be known. The dashing streamStays not to pick his steps among the rocks,Or let his water-breaks be chronicled.And though the hunter looks before he leap,’Tis instinct rather than a shaped-out thoughtThat lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail!And farewell hesitation. If I stay,I am not innocent; nor if I go—E’en should I fall—beyond redemption lost.

Were it not better done, then, to keep off

And see, not share, the strife; stand out the waltz

Which fools whirl dizzy in? Is it possible?

Contamination taints the idler first;

And without base compliance, e’en that same

Which buys bold hearts free course, Earth lends not these

Their pent and miserable standing-room.

Life loves no lookers-on at his great game,

And with boy’s malice still delights to turn

The tide of sport upon the sitters-by,

And set observers scampering with their notes.

Oh, it is great to do and know not what,

Nor let it e’er be known. The dashing stream

Stays not to pick his steps among the rocks,

Or let his water-breaks be chronicled.

And though the hunter looks before he leap,

’Tis instinct rather than a shaped-out thought

That lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail!

And farewell hesitation. If I stay,

I am not innocent; nor if I go—

E’en should I fall—beyond redemption lost.

Ah, if I had a course like a full stream,If life were as the field of chase! No, no;The life of instinct has, it seems, gone by,And will not be forced back. And to live nowI must sluice out myself into canals,And lose all force in ducts. The modern HotspurShrills not his trumpet of ‘To Horse, To Horse!’But consults columns in a Railway Guide;A demigod of figures; an AchillesOf computation;A verier Mercury, express come downTo do the world with swift arithmetic.Well, one could bear with that, were the end ours,One’s choice and the correlative of the soul;To drudge were then sweet service. But indeedThe earth moves slowly, if it move at all,And by the general, not the single forceOf the linked members of the vast machine.In all these crowded rooms of industry,No individual soul has loftier leaveThan fiddling with a piston or a valve.Well, one could bear that also: one would drudgeAnd do one’s petty part, and be contentIn base manipulation, solaced stillBy thinking of the leagued fraternity,And of co-operation, and the effectOf the great engine. If indeed it work,And is not a mere treadmill! which it may be.Who can confirm it is not? We ask action.And dream of arms and conflict; and string upAll self-devotion’s muscles; and are setTo fold up papers. To what end? we know not.Other folks do so; it is always done;And it perhaps is right. And we are paid for it,For nothing else we can be. He that eatsMust serve; and serve as other servants do:And don the lacquey’s livery of the house.Oh, could I shoot my thought up to the sky,A column of pure shape, for all to observe!But I must slave, a meagre coral-worm,To build beneath the tide with excrementWhat one day will be island, or be reef,And will feed men, or wreck them. Well, well, well.Adieu, ye twisted thinkings. I submit: it must be.

Ah, if I had a course like a full stream,

If life were as the field of chase! No, no;

The life of instinct has, it seems, gone by,

And will not be forced back. And to live now

I must sluice out myself into canals,

And lose all force in ducts. The modern Hotspur

Shrills not his trumpet of ‘To Horse, To Horse!’

But consults columns in a Railway Guide;

A demigod of figures; an Achilles

Of computation;

A verier Mercury, express come down

To do the world with swift arithmetic.

Well, one could bear with that, were the end ours,

One’s choice and the correlative of the soul;

To drudge were then sweet service. But indeed

The earth moves slowly, if it move at all,

And by the general, not the single force

Of the linked members of the vast machine.

In all these crowded rooms of industry,

No individual soul has loftier leave

Than fiddling with a piston or a valve.

Well, one could bear that also: one would drudge

And do one’s petty part, and be content

In base manipulation, solaced still

By thinking of the leagued fraternity,

And of co-operation, and the effect

Of the great engine. If indeed it work,

And is not a mere treadmill! which it may be.

Who can confirm it is not? We ask action.

And dream of arms and conflict; and string up

All self-devotion’s muscles; and are set

To fold up papers. To what end? we know not.

Other folks do so; it is always done;

And it perhaps is right. And we are paid for it,

For nothing else we can be. He that eats

Must serve; and serve as other servants do:

And don the lacquey’s livery of the house.

Oh, could I shoot my thought up to the sky,

A column of pure shape, for all to observe!

But I must slave, a meagre coral-worm,

To build beneath the tide with excrement

What one day will be island, or be reef,

And will feed men, or wreck them. Well, well, well.

Adieu, ye twisted thinkings. I submit: it must be.

Action is what one must get, it is clear,And one could dream it better than one finds,In its kind personal, in its motive not;Not selfish as it now is, nor as nowMaiming the individual. If we had that,It would cure all indeed. Oh, how would thenThese pitiful rebellions of the flesh,These caterwaulings of the effeminate heart,These hurts of self-imagined dignity,Pass like the seaweed from about the bowsOf a great vessel speeding straight to sea!Yes, if we could have that; but I supposeWe shall not have it, and therefore I submit!

Action is what one must get, it is clear,

And one could dream it better than one finds,

In its kind personal, in its motive not;

Not selfish as it now is, nor as now

Maiming the individual. If we had that,

It would cure all indeed. Oh, how would then

These pitiful rebellions of the flesh,

These caterwaulings of the effeminate heart,

These hurts of self-imagined dignity,

Pass like the seaweed from about the bows

Of a great vessel speeding straight to sea!

Yes, if we could have that; but I suppose

We shall not have it, and therefore I submit!

Sp.(from within). Submit, submit!’Tis common sense, and human witCan claim no higher name than it.Submit, submit!

Sp.(from within). Submit, submit!

’Tis common sense, and human wit

Can claim no higher name than it.

Submit, submit!

Devotion, and ideas, and love,And beauty claim their place above;But saint and sage and poet’s dreamsDivide the light in coloured streams,Which this alone gives all combined,Thesiccum lumenof the mindCalled common sense: and no high witGives better counsel than does it.Submit, submit!

Devotion, and ideas, and love,

And beauty claim their place above;

But saint and sage and poet’s dreams

Divide the light in coloured streams,

Which this alone gives all combined,

Thesiccum lumenof the mind

Called common sense: and no high wit

Gives better counsel than does it.

Submit, submit!

To see things simply as they areHere at our elbows, transcends farTrying to spy out at middaySome ‘bright particular star,’ which may,Or not, be visible at night,But clearly is not in daylight;No inspiration vague outweighsThe plain good common sense that says,Submit, submit!’Tis common sense, and human witCan ask no higher name than it.Submit, submit!

To see things simply as they are

Here at our elbows, transcends far

Trying to spy out at midday

Some ‘bright particular star,’ which may,

Or not, be visible at night,

But clearly is not in daylight;

No inspiration vague outweighs

The plain good common sense that says,

Submit, submit!

’Tis common sense, and human wit

Can ask no higher name than it.

Submit, submit!

Di.There have been times, not many, but enoughTo quiet all repinings of the heart;There have been times, in which my tranquil soul,No longer nebulous, sparse, errant, seemedUpon its axis solidly to move,Centred and fast: no mere elastic blankFor random rays to traverse unretained,But rounding luminous its fair ellipseAround its central sun. Ay, yet again,As in more faint sensations I detect,With it too, round an Inner, Mightier orb,Maybe with that too—this I dare not say—Around, yet more, more central, more supreme,Whate’er how numerous soe’er they be,I am and feel myself, where’er I wind,What vagrant chance soe’er I seem to obeyCommunicably theirs.O happy hours!O compensation ample for long daysOf what impatient tongues call wretchedness!O beautiful, beneath the magic moon,To walk the watery way of palaces!O beautiful, o’ervaulted with gemmed blue,This spacious court, with colour and with gold,With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,And crosses multiplex, and tips and balls(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused);Fantastically perfect this low pileOf Oriental glory; these long rangesOf classic chiselling, this gay flickering crowd.And the calm Campanile. Beautiful!O beautiful! and that seemed more profound,This morning by the pillar when I satUnder the great arcade, at the review,And took, and held, and ordered on my brainThe faces, and the voices, and the whole massO’ the motley facts of existence flowing by!O perfect, if ’twere all! But it is not;Hints haunt me ever of a more beyond:I am rebuked by a sense of the incomplete,Of a completion over soon assumed,Of adding up too soon. What we call sin,I could believe a painful opening outOf paths for ampler virtue. The bare field,Scant with lean ears of harvest, long had mockedThe vext laborious farmer; came at lengthThe deep plough in the lazy undersoilDown-driving; with a cry earth’s fibres crack,And a few months, and lo! the golden leas,And autumn’s crowded shocks and loaded wains.Let us look back on life; was any change,Any now blest expansion, but at firstA pang, remorse-like, shot to the inmost seatsOf moral being? To do anything,Distinct on any one thing to decide,To leave the habitual and the old, and quitThe easy-chair of use and wont, seems crimeTo the weak soul, forgetful how at firstSitting down seemed so too. And, oh! this woman’s heart,Fain to be forced, incredulous of choice,And waiting a necessity for God.Yet I could think, indeed, the perfect callShould force the perfect answer. If the voiceOught to receive its echo from the soul,Wherefore this silence? If itshouldrouse my being,Why this reluctance? Have I not thought o’ermuchOf other men, and of the ways of the world?But what they are, or have been, matters not.To thine own self be true, the wise man says.Are then my fears myself? O double self!And I untrue to both? Oh, there are hours,When love, and faith, and dear domestic ties,And converse with old friends, and pleasant walks,Familiar faces, and familiar books,Study, and art, upliftings unto prayer,And admiration of the noblest things,Seem all ignoble only; all is mean,And nought as I would have it. Then at others,My mind is in her rest; my heart at homeIn all around; my soul secure in place,And the vext needle perfect to her poles.Aimless and hopeless in my life I seemTo thread the winding byways of the town,Bewildered, baffled, hurried hence and thence,All at cross-purpose even with myself,Unknowing whence or whither. Thence at once,At a step, I crown the Campanile’s top,And view all mapped below; islands, lagoon,A hundred steeples and a million roofs,The fruitful champaign, and the cloud-capt Alps,And the broad Adriatic. Be it enough;If I lose this, how terrible! No, no,I am contented, and will not complain.To the old paths, my soul! Oh, be it so!I bear the workday burden of dull lifeAbout these footsore flags of a weary world,Heaven knows how long it has not been; at once,Lo! I am in the spirit on the Lord’s dayWith John in Patmos. Is it not enough,One day in seven? and if this should go,If this pure solace should desert my mind,What were all else? I dare not risk this loss.To the old paths, my soul!Sp.O yes.To moon about religion; to inhumeYour ripened age in solitary walks,For self-discussion; to debate in lettersVext points with earnest friends; past other menTo cherish natural instincts, yet to fear themAnd less than any use them; oh, no doubt,In a corner sit and mope, and be consoledWith thinking one is clever, while the roomRings through with animation and the dance.Then talk of old examples; to pervertAncient real facts to modern unreal dreamsAnd build up baseless fabrics of romanceAnd heroism upon historic sand;To burn, forsooth, for action, yet despiseIts merest accidence and alphabet;Cry out for service, and at once rebelAt the application of its plainest rules:This you call life, my friend, reality;Doing your duty unto God and man—I know not what. Stay at Venice, if you will;Sit musing in its churches hour on hourCross-kneed upon a bench; climb up at whilesThe neighbouring tower, and kill the lingering dayWith old comparisons; when night succeeds,Evading, yet a little seeking, whatYou would and would not, turn your doubtful eyesOn moon and stars to help morality;Once in a fortnight say, by lucky chanceOf happier-tempered coffee, gain (great Heaven!)A pious rapture: is it not enough?Di.’Tis well: thou cursed spirit, go thy way!I am in higher hands than yours. ’Tis well;Who taught you menaces? Who told you, pray,Because I asked you questions, and made showOf hearing what you answered, therefore——Sp.Oh,As if I didn’t know!Di.Come, come, my friend,I may have wavered, but I have thought better.We’ll say no more of it.Sp.Oh, I dare say:But as you like; ’tis your own loss; once more,Beware!Di.(alone.) Must it be then? So quick upon my thoughtTo follow the fulfilment and the deed?I counted not on this; I counted everTo hold and turn it over in my handsMuch longer, much: I took it up indeed,For speculation rather; to gain thought,New data. Oh, and now to be goaded onBy menaces, entangled among tricks;That I won’t suffer. Yet it is the law;’Tis this makes action always. But for thisWe ne’er should act at all; and act we must.Why quarrel with the fashion of a factWhich, one way, must be, one time, why not now?Sp.Submit, submit!For tell me then, in earth’s great lawsHave you found any saving clause,Exemption special granted youFrom doing what the rest must do?Of common sense who made you quit,And told you, you’d no need of it,Nor to submit?To move on angels’ wings were sweet;But who would therefore scorn his feet?It cannot walk up to the sky;It therefore will lie down and die.Rich meats it don’t obtain at call;It therefore will not eat at all.Poor babe, and yet a babe of wit!But common sense, not much of it,Or ’twould submit.Submit, submit!As your good father did before you,And as the mother who first bore you,O yes! a child of heavenly birth!But yet itwasborn too on earth.Keep your new birth for that far dayWhen in the grave your bones you lay,All with your kindred and connection,In hopes of happy resurrection.But how meantime to live is fit,Ask common sense; and what says it?Submit, submit!

Di.There have been times, not many, but enough

To quiet all repinings of the heart;

There have been times, in which my tranquil soul,

No longer nebulous, sparse, errant, seemed

Upon its axis solidly to move,

Centred and fast: no mere elastic blank

For random rays to traverse unretained,

But rounding luminous its fair ellipse

Around its central sun. Ay, yet again,

As in more faint sensations I detect,

With it too, round an Inner, Mightier orb,

Maybe with that too—this I dare not say—

Around, yet more, more central, more supreme,

Whate’er how numerous soe’er they be,

I am and feel myself, where’er I wind,

What vagrant chance soe’er I seem to obey

Communicably theirs.

O happy hours!O compensation ample for long daysOf what impatient tongues call wretchedness!O beautiful, beneath the magic moon,To walk the watery way of palaces!O beautiful, o’ervaulted with gemmed blue,This spacious court, with colour and with gold,With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,And crosses multiplex, and tips and balls(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused);Fantastically perfect this low pileOf Oriental glory; these long rangesOf classic chiselling, this gay flickering crowd.And the calm Campanile. Beautiful!O beautiful! and that seemed more profound,This morning by the pillar when I satUnder the great arcade, at the review,And took, and held, and ordered on my brainThe faces, and the voices, and the whole massO’ the motley facts of existence flowing by!O perfect, if ’twere all! But it is not;Hints haunt me ever of a more beyond:I am rebuked by a sense of the incomplete,Of a completion over soon assumed,Of adding up too soon. What we call sin,I could believe a painful opening outOf paths for ampler virtue. The bare field,Scant with lean ears of harvest, long had mockedThe vext laborious farmer; came at lengthThe deep plough in the lazy undersoilDown-driving; with a cry earth’s fibres crack,And a few months, and lo! the golden leas,And autumn’s crowded shocks and loaded wains.Let us look back on life; was any change,Any now blest expansion, but at firstA pang, remorse-like, shot to the inmost seatsOf moral being? To do anything,Distinct on any one thing to decide,To leave the habitual and the old, and quitThe easy-chair of use and wont, seems crimeTo the weak soul, forgetful how at firstSitting down seemed so too. And, oh! this woman’s heart,Fain to be forced, incredulous of choice,And waiting a necessity for God.Yet I could think, indeed, the perfect callShould force the perfect answer. If the voiceOught to receive its echo from the soul,Wherefore this silence? If itshouldrouse my being,Why this reluctance? Have I not thought o’ermuchOf other men, and of the ways of the world?But what they are, or have been, matters not.To thine own self be true, the wise man says.Are then my fears myself? O double self!And I untrue to both? Oh, there are hours,When love, and faith, and dear domestic ties,And converse with old friends, and pleasant walks,Familiar faces, and familiar books,Study, and art, upliftings unto prayer,And admiration of the noblest things,Seem all ignoble only; all is mean,And nought as I would have it. Then at others,My mind is in her rest; my heart at homeIn all around; my soul secure in place,And the vext needle perfect to her poles.Aimless and hopeless in my life I seemTo thread the winding byways of the town,Bewildered, baffled, hurried hence and thence,All at cross-purpose even with myself,Unknowing whence or whither. Thence at once,At a step, I crown the Campanile’s top,And view all mapped below; islands, lagoon,A hundred steeples and a million roofs,The fruitful champaign, and the cloud-capt Alps,And the broad Adriatic. Be it enough;If I lose this, how terrible! No, no,I am contented, and will not complain.To the old paths, my soul! Oh, be it so!I bear the workday burden of dull lifeAbout these footsore flags of a weary world,Heaven knows how long it has not been; at once,Lo! I am in the spirit on the Lord’s dayWith John in Patmos. Is it not enough,One day in seven? and if this should go,If this pure solace should desert my mind,What were all else? I dare not risk this loss.To the old paths, my soul!

O happy hours!

O compensation ample for long days

Of what impatient tongues call wretchedness!

O beautiful, beneath the magic moon,

To walk the watery way of palaces!

O beautiful, o’ervaulted with gemmed blue,

This spacious court, with colour and with gold,

With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,

And crosses multiplex, and tips and balls

(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,

Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused);

Fantastically perfect this low pile

Of Oriental glory; these long ranges

Of classic chiselling, this gay flickering crowd.

And the calm Campanile. Beautiful!

O beautiful! and that seemed more profound,

This morning by the pillar when I sat

Under the great arcade, at the review,

And took, and held, and ordered on my brain

The faces, and the voices, and the whole mass

O’ the motley facts of existence flowing by!

O perfect, if ’twere all! But it is not;

Hints haunt me ever of a more beyond:

I am rebuked by a sense of the incomplete,

Of a completion over soon assumed,

Of adding up too soon. What we call sin,

I could believe a painful opening out

Of paths for ampler virtue. The bare field,

Scant with lean ears of harvest, long had mocked

The vext laborious farmer; came at length

The deep plough in the lazy undersoil

Down-driving; with a cry earth’s fibres crack,

And a few months, and lo! the golden leas,

And autumn’s crowded shocks and loaded wains.

Let us look back on life; was any change,

Any now blest expansion, but at first

A pang, remorse-like, shot to the inmost seats

Of moral being? To do anything,

Distinct on any one thing to decide,

To leave the habitual and the old, and quit

The easy-chair of use and wont, seems crime

To the weak soul, forgetful how at first

Sitting down seemed so too. And, oh! this woman’s heart,

Fain to be forced, incredulous of choice,

And waiting a necessity for God.

Yet I could think, indeed, the perfect call

Should force the perfect answer. If the voice

Ought to receive its echo from the soul,

Wherefore this silence? If itshouldrouse my being,

Why this reluctance? Have I not thought o’ermuch

Of other men, and of the ways of the world?

But what they are, or have been, matters not.

To thine own self be true, the wise man says.

Are then my fears myself? O double self!

And I untrue to both? Oh, there are hours,

When love, and faith, and dear domestic ties,

And converse with old friends, and pleasant walks,

Familiar faces, and familiar books,

Study, and art, upliftings unto prayer,

And admiration of the noblest things,

Seem all ignoble only; all is mean,

And nought as I would have it. Then at others,

My mind is in her rest; my heart at home

In all around; my soul secure in place,

And the vext needle perfect to her poles.

Aimless and hopeless in my life I seem

To thread the winding byways of the town,

Bewildered, baffled, hurried hence and thence,

All at cross-purpose even with myself,

Unknowing whence or whither. Thence at once,

At a step, I crown the Campanile’s top,

And view all mapped below; islands, lagoon,

A hundred steeples and a million roofs,

The fruitful champaign, and the cloud-capt Alps,

And the broad Adriatic. Be it enough;

If I lose this, how terrible! No, no,

I am contented, and will not complain.

To the old paths, my soul! Oh, be it so!

I bear the workday burden of dull life

About these footsore flags of a weary world,

Heaven knows how long it has not been; at once,

Lo! I am in the spirit on the Lord’s day

With John in Patmos. Is it not enough,

One day in seven? and if this should go,

If this pure solace should desert my mind,

What were all else? I dare not risk this loss.

To the old paths, my soul!

Sp.O yes.To moon about religion; to inhumeYour ripened age in solitary walks,For self-discussion; to debate in lettersVext points with earnest friends; past other menTo cherish natural instincts, yet to fear themAnd less than any use them; oh, no doubt,In a corner sit and mope, and be consoledWith thinking one is clever, while the roomRings through with animation and the dance.Then talk of old examples; to pervertAncient real facts to modern unreal dreamsAnd build up baseless fabrics of romanceAnd heroism upon historic sand;To burn, forsooth, for action, yet despiseIts merest accidence and alphabet;Cry out for service, and at once rebelAt the application of its plainest rules:This you call life, my friend, reality;Doing your duty unto God and man—I know not what. Stay at Venice, if you will;Sit musing in its churches hour on hourCross-kneed upon a bench; climb up at whilesThe neighbouring tower, and kill the lingering dayWith old comparisons; when night succeeds,Evading, yet a little seeking, whatYou would and would not, turn your doubtful eyesOn moon and stars to help morality;Once in a fortnight say, by lucky chanceOf happier-tempered coffee, gain (great Heaven!)A pious rapture: is it not enough?

Sp.O yes.

To moon about religion; to inhume

Your ripened age in solitary walks,

For self-discussion; to debate in letters

Vext points with earnest friends; past other men

To cherish natural instincts, yet to fear them

And less than any use them; oh, no doubt,

In a corner sit and mope, and be consoled

With thinking one is clever, while the room

Rings through with animation and the dance.

Then talk of old examples; to pervert

Ancient real facts to modern unreal dreams

And build up baseless fabrics of romance

And heroism upon historic sand;

To burn, forsooth, for action, yet despise

Its merest accidence and alphabet;

Cry out for service, and at once rebel

At the application of its plainest rules:

This you call life, my friend, reality;

Doing your duty unto God and man—

I know not what. Stay at Venice, if you will;

Sit musing in its churches hour on hour

Cross-kneed upon a bench; climb up at whiles

The neighbouring tower, and kill the lingering day

With old comparisons; when night succeeds,

Evading, yet a little seeking, what

You would and would not, turn your doubtful eyes

On moon and stars to help morality;

Once in a fortnight say, by lucky chance

Of happier-tempered coffee, gain (great Heaven!)

A pious rapture: is it not enough?

Di.’Tis well: thou cursed spirit, go thy way!I am in higher hands than yours. ’Tis well;Who taught you menaces? Who told you, pray,Because I asked you questions, and made showOf hearing what you answered, therefore——

Di.’Tis well: thou cursed spirit, go thy way!

I am in higher hands than yours. ’Tis well;

Who taught you menaces? Who told you, pray,

Because I asked you questions, and made show

Of hearing what you answered, therefore——

Sp.Oh,As if I didn’t know!

Sp.Oh,

As if I didn’t know!

Di.Come, come, my friend,I may have wavered, but I have thought better.We’ll say no more of it.

Di.Come, come, my friend,

I may have wavered, but I have thought better.

We’ll say no more of it.

Sp.Oh, I dare say:But as you like; ’tis your own loss; once more,Beware!

Sp.Oh, I dare say:

But as you like; ’tis your own loss; once more,

Beware!

Di.(alone.) Must it be then? So quick upon my thoughtTo follow the fulfilment and the deed?I counted not on this; I counted everTo hold and turn it over in my handsMuch longer, much: I took it up indeed,For speculation rather; to gain thought,New data. Oh, and now to be goaded onBy menaces, entangled among tricks;That I won’t suffer. Yet it is the law;’Tis this makes action always. But for thisWe ne’er should act at all; and act we must.Why quarrel with the fashion of a factWhich, one way, must be, one time, why not now?

Di.(alone.) Must it be then? So quick upon my thought

To follow the fulfilment and the deed?

I counted not on this; I counted ever

To hold and turn it over in my hands

Much longer, much: I took it up indeed,

For speculation rather; to gain thought,

New data. Oh, and now to be goaded on

By menaces, entangled among tricks;

That I won’t suffer. Yet it is the law;

’Tis this makes action always. But for this

We ne’er should act at all; and act we must.

Why quarrel with the fashion of a fact

Which, one way, must be, one time, why not now?

Sp.Submit, submit!For tell me then, in earth’s great lawsHave you found any saving clause,Exemption special granted youFrom doing what the rest must do?Of common sense who made you quit,And told you, you’d no need of it,Nor to submit?

Sp.Submit, submit!

For tell me then, in earth’s great laws

Have you found any saving clause,

Exemption special granted you

From doing what the rest must do?

Of common sense who made you quit,

And told you, you’d no need of it,

Nor to submit?

To move on angels’ wings were sweet;But who would therefore scorn his feet?It cannot walk up to the sky;It therefore will lie down and die.Rich meats it don’t obtain at call;It therefore will not eat at all.Poor babe, and yet a babe of wit!But common sense, not much of it,Or ’twould submit.Submit, submit!

To move on angels’ wings were sweet;

But who would therefore scorn his feet?

It cannot walk up to the sky;

It therefore will lie down and die.

Rich meats it don’t obtain at call;

It therefore will not eat at all.

Poor babe, and yet a babe of wit!

But common sense, not much of it,

Or ’twould submit.

Submit, submit!

As your good father did before you,And as the mother who first bore you,O yes! a child of heavenly birth!But yet itwasborn too on earth.Keep your new birth for that far dayWhen in the grave your bones you lay,All with your kindred and connection,In hopes of happy resurrection.But how meantime to live is fit,Ask common sense; and what says it?Submit, submit!

As your good father did before you,

And as the mother who first bore you,

O yes! a child of heavenly birth!

But yet itwasborn too on earth.

Keep your new birth for that far day

When in the grave your bones you lay,

All with your kindred and connection,

In hopes of happy resurrection.

But how meantime to live is fit,

Ask common sense; and what says it?

Submit, submit!

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