DIPSYCHUS.

‘I hope it is in good plain verse,’ said my uncle,—‘none of your hurry-scurry anapæsts, as you call them, in lines which sober people read for plain heroics. Nothing is more disagreeable than to say a line over two, or, it may be, three or four times, and at last not be sure that there are not three or four ways of reading, each as good and as much intended as another.Simplex duntaxat et unum.But you young people think Horace and your uncles old fools.’

‘Certainly, my dear sir,’ said I; ‘that is, I mean, Horace and my uncle are perfectly right. Still, there is an instructed ear and an uninstructed. A rude taste for identical recurrences would exact sing-song from “Paradise Lost,” and grumble because “Il Penseroso” doesn’t run like a nursery rhyme.’ ‘Well, well,’ said my uncle, ‘sunt certi denique fines, no doubt. So commence, my young Piso, while Aristarchus is tolerably wakeful, and do not waste by your logic the fund you will want for your poetry.’

Di.The scene is different, and the place, the airTastes of the nearer north; the peopleNot perfect southern lightness; wherefore, then,Should those old verses come into my mindI made last year at Naples? Oh, poor fool!Still resting on thyself—a thing ill-worked—A moment’s thought committed on the momentTo unripe words and rugged verse:—‘Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past,With fiercer heat than flamed above my headMy heart was hot within me; till at lastMy brain was lightened when my tongue had said—Christ is not risen!’Sp.Christ is not risen? Oh, indeed,I didn’t know that was your creed.Di.So it went on, too lengthy to repeat—‘Christ is not risen.’Sp.Dear, how odd!He’ll tell us next there is no God.I thought ’twas in the Bible plain,On the third day He rose again.Di.Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;As of the unjust, also of the just—Yea, of that Just One, too!Is He not risen, and shall we not rise?Oh, we unwise!’Sp.H’m! and the tone, then, after all,Something of the ironical?Sarcastic, say; or were it fitterTo style it the religious bitter?Di.Interpret it I cannot. I but wrote it—At Naples, truly, as the preface tells,Last year, in the Toledo; it came on me,And did me good at once. At Naples then,At Venice now. Ah! and I think at VeniceChrist is not risen either.Sp.Nay,Such things don’t fall out every day:Having once happened, as we know,In Palestine so long ago,How should it now at Venice hereWhere people, true enough, appearTo appreciate more and understandTheir ices, and their Austrian bandAnd dark-eyed girls.Di.The whole great square they fill,From the red flaunting streamers on the staffs,And that barbaric portal of St. Mark’s,To where, unnoticed, at the darker end,I sit upon my step—one great gay crowd.The Campanile to the silent starsGoes up, above—its apex lost in air—While these do what?Sp.Enjoy the minute,And the substantial blessings in it:Ices,par exemple; evening air,Company, and this handsome square;And all the sweets in perfect plentyOf the olddolce far niente.Music! Up, up; it isn’t fitWith beggars here on steps to sit.Up, to the caffé! take a chair,And join the wiser idlers there.And see that fellow singing yonder;Singing, ye gods, and dancing too—Tooraloo, tooraloo, tooraloo, loo—Fiddledi diddledi, diddle di di;Figaro sù, Figaro giù—Figaro quà, Figaro là!How he likes doing it—Ha, ha!Di.While these do what? Ah, heaven! too true, at VeniceChrist is not risen either.

Di.The scene is different, and the place, the air

Tastes of the nearer north; the people

Not perfect southern lightness; wherefore, then,

Should those old verses come into my mind

I made last year at Naples? Oh, poor fool!

Still resting on thyself—a thing ill-worked—

A moment’s thought committed on the moment

To unripe words and rugged verse:—

‘Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past,

With fiercer heat than flamed above my head

My heart was hot within me; till at last

My brain was lightened when my tongue had said—

Christ is not risen!’

Sp.Christ is not risen? Oh, indeed,I didn’t know that was your creed.

Sp.Christ is not risen? Oh, indeed,

I didn’t know that was your creed.

Di.So it went on, too lengthy to repeat—‘Christ is not risen.’

Di.So it went on, too lengthy to repeat—

‘Christ is not risen.’

Sp.Dear, how odd!He’ll tell us next there is no God.I thought ’twas in the Bible plain,On the third day He rose again.

Sp.Dear, how odd!

He’ll tell us next there is no God.

I thought ’twas in the Bible plain,

On the third day He rose again.

Di.Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;As of the unjust, also of the just—Yea, of that Just One, too!Is He not risen, and shall we not rise?Oh, we unwise!’

Di.Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;

As of the unjust, also of the just—

Yea, of that Just One, too!

Is He not risen, and shall we not rise?

Oh, we unwise!’

Sp.H’m! and the tone, then, after all,Something of the ironical?Sarcastic, say; or were it fitterTo style it the religious bitter?

Sp.H’m! and the tone, then, after all,

Something of the ironical?

Sarcastic, say; or were it fitter

To style it the religious bitter?

Di.Interpret it I cannot. I but wrote it—At Naples, truly, as the preface tells,Last year, in the Toledo; it came on me,And did me good at once. At Naples then,At Venice now. Ah! and I think at VeniceChrist is not risen either.

Di.Interpret it I cannot. I but wrote it—

At Naples, truly, as the preface tells,

Last year, in the Toledo; it came on me,

And did me good at once. At Naples then,

At Venice now. Ah! and I think at Venice

Christ is not risen either.

Sp.Nay,Such things don’t fall out every day:Having once happened, as we know,In Palestine so long ago,How should it now at Venice hereWhere people, true enough, appearTo appreciate more and understandTheir ices, and their Austrian bandAnd dark-eyed girls.

Sp.Nay,

Such things don’t fall out every day:

Having once happened, as we know,

In Palestine so long ago,

How should it now at Venice here

Where people, true enough, appear

To appreciate more and understand

Their ices, and their Austrian band

And dark-eyed girls.

Di.The whole great square they fill,From the red flaunting streamers on the staffs,And that barbaric portal of St. Mark’s,To where, unnoticed, at the darker end,I sit upon my step—one great gay crowd.The Campanile to the silent starsGoes up, above—its apex lost in air—While these do what?

Di.The whole great square they fill,

From the red flaunting streamers on the staffs,

And that barbaric portal of St. Mark’s,

To where, unnoticed, at the darker end,

I sit upon my step—one great gay crowd.

The Campanile to the silent stars

Goes up, above—its apex lost in air—

While these do what?

Sp.Enjoy the minute,And the substantial blessings in it:Ices,par exemple; evening air,Company, and this handsome square;And all the sweets in perfect plentyOf the olddolce far niente.Music! Up, up; it isn’t fitWith beggars here on steps to sit.Up, to the caffé! take a chair,And join the wiser idlers there.And see that fellow singing yonder;Singing, ye gods, and dancing too—Tooraloo, tooraloo, tooraloo, loo—Fiddledi diddledi, diddle di di;Figaro sù, Figaro giù—Figaro quà, Figaro là!How he likes doing it—Ha, ha!

Sp.Enjoy the minute,

And the substantial blessings in it:

Ices,par exemple; evening air,

Company, and this handsome square;

And all the sweets in perfect plenty

Of the olddolce far niente.

Music! Up, up; it isn’t fit

With beggars here on steps to sit.

Up, to the caffé! take a chair,

And join the wiser idlers there.

And see that fellow singing yonder;

Singing, ye gods, and dancing too—

Tooraloo, tooraloo, tooraloo, loo—

Fiddledi diddledi, diddle di di;

Figaro sù, Figaro giù—

Figaro quà, Figaro là!

How he likes doing it—Ha, ha!

Di.While these do what? Ah, heaven! too true, at VeniceChrist is not risen either.

Di.While these do what? Ah, heaven! too true, at Venice

Christ is not risen either.

Di.Assuredly, a lively scene!And, ah, how pleasant something green!With circling heavens one perfect roseEach smoother patch of water glows,Hence to where, o’er the full tide’s face,We see the Palace and the Place,And the white dome; beauteous, but hot.Where in the meantime is the spot—My favourite—where by masses blue,And white cloud-folds, I follow trueThe great Alps, rounding grandly o’er,Huge arc, to the Dalmatian shore?Sp.This rather stupid place, to-day,It’s true, is most extremely gay;And rightly—the AssunzioneWas always agran’ funzione.Di.What is this persecuting voice that haunts me?What? whence? of whom? How am I to detect?Myself or not myself? My own bad thoughts,Or some external agency at work,To lead me who knows whither?Sp.Eh?We’re certainly in luck to-day:What crowds of boats before us plying—Gay parties, singing, shouting, crying—Saluting others past them flying!What numbers at the causeway lying!What lots of pretty girls, too, hieingHither and thither—coming, going,And with what satisfaction showingTheir dark exuberance of hair,Black eyes, rich tints, and sundry gracesOf classic pure Italian faces!Di.Ah me, me!Clear stars above, thou roseate westward sky,Take up my being into yours; assumeMy sense to know you only; steep my brainIn your essential purity, or, great Alps,That wrapping round your heads in solemn cloudsSeem sternly to sweep past our vanities,Lead me with you—take me away, preserve me!O moon and stars, forgive! and thou, clear heaven,Look pureness back into me. Oh, great God!Why, why, in wisdom and in grace’s name,And in the name of saints and saintly thoughts,Of mothers, and of sisters, and chaste wives,And angel woman-faces we have seen,And angel woman-spirits we have guessed,And innocent sweet children, and pure love,Why did I ever one brief moment’s spaceBut parley with this filthy Belial?...Was it the fearOf being behind the world, which is the wicked?

Di.Assuredly, a lively scene!

And, ah, how pleasant something green!

With circling heavens one perfect rose

Each smoother patch of water glows,

Hence to where, o’er the full tide’s face,

We see the Palace and the Place,

And the white dome; beauteous, but hot.

Where in the meantime is the spot—

My favourite—where by masses blue,

And white cloud-folds, I follow true

The great Alps, rounding grandly o’er,

Huge arc, to the Dalmatian shore?

Sp.This rather stupid place, to-day,It’s true, is most extremely gay;And rightly—the AssunzioneWas always agran’ funzione.

Sp.This rather stupid place, to-day,

It’s true, is most extremely gay;

And rightly—the Assunzione

Was always agran’ funzione.

Di.What is this persecuting voice that haunts me?What? whence? of whom? How am I to detect?Myself or not myself? My own bad thoughts,Or some external agency at work,To lead me who knows whither?

Di.What is this persecuting voice that haunts me?

What? whence? of whom? How am I to detect?

Myself or not myself? My own bad thoughts,

Or some external agency at work,

To lead me who knows whither?

Sp.Eh?We’re certainly in luck to-day:What crowds of boats before us plying—Gay parties, singing, shouting, crying—Saluting others past them flying!What numbers at the causeway lying!What lots of pretty girls, too, hieingHither and thither—coming, going,And with what satisfaction showingTheir dark exuberance of hair,Black eyes, rich tints, and sundry gracesOf classic pure Italian faces!

Sp.Eh?

We’re certainly in luck to-day:

What crowds of boats before us plying—

Gay parties, singing, shouting, crying—

Saluting others past them flying!

What numbers at the causeway lying!

What lots of pretty girls, too, hieing

Hither and thither—coming, going,

And with what satisfaction showing

Their dark exuberance of hair,

Black eyes, rich tints, and sundry graces

Of classic pure Italian faces!

Di.Ah me, me!Clear stars above, thou roseate westward sky,Take up my being into yours; assumeMy sense to know you only; steep my brainIn your essential purity, or, great Alps,That wrapping round your heads in solemn cloudsSeem sternly to sweep past our vanities,Lead me with you—take me away, preserve me!

Di.Ah me, me!

Clear stars above, thou roseate westward sky,

Take up my being into yours; assume

My sense to know you only; steep my brain

In your essential purity, or, great Alps,

That wrapping round your heads in solemn clouds

Seem sternly to sweep past our vanities,

Lead me with you—take me away, preserve me!

O moon and stars, forgive! and thou, clear heaven,Look pureness back into me. Oh, great God!Why, why, in wisdom and in grace’s name,And in the name of saints and saintly thoughts,Of mothers, and of sisters, and chaste wives,And angel woman-faces we have seen,And angel woman-spirits we have guessed,And innocent sweet children, and pure love,Why did I ever one brief moment’s spaceBut parley with this filthy Belial?...Was it the fearOf being behind the world, which is the wicked?

O moon and stars, forgive! and thou, clear heaven,

Look pureness back into me. Oh, great God!

Why, why, in wisdom and in grace’s name,

And in the name of saints and saintly thoughts,

Of mothers, and of sisters, and chaste wives,

And angel woman-faces we have seen,

And angel woman-spirits we have guessed,

And innocent sweet children, and pure love,

Why did I ever one brief moment’s space

But parley with this filthy Belial?

...Was it the fear

Of being behind the world, which is the wicked?

Sp.Come, then,And with my aid go into good society.Life little loves, ’tis true, this peevish piety;E’en they with whom it thinks to be securest—Your most religious, delicatest, purest—Discern, and show as pious people canTheir feeling that you are not quite a man.Still the thing has its place; and with sagacity,Much might be done by one of your capacity.A virtuous attachment formed judiciouslyWould come, one sees, uncommonly propitiously:Turn you but your affections the right way,And what mayn’t happen none of us can say;For in despite of devils and of mothers,Your good young men make catches, too, like others.Di.To herd with people that one owns no care for;Friend it with strangers that one sees but once;To drain the heart with endless complaisance;To warp the unfinished diction on the lip,And twist one’s mouth to counterfeit; enforceReluctant looks to falsehood; base-alloyThe ingenuous golden frankness of the past;To calculate and plot; be rough and smooth,Forward and silent, deferential, cool,Not by one’s humour, which is the safe truth,But on consideration.Sp.That is, actOn a dispassionate judgment of the fact;Look all the data fairly in the face,And rule your judgment simply by the case.Di.On vile consideration. At the best,With pallid hotbed courtesies to forestallThe green and vernal spontaneity,And waste the priceless moments of the manIn regulating manner. Whether these thingsBe right, I do not know: I only know ’tisTo lose one’s youth too early. Oh, not yet—Not yet I make the sacrifice.Sp.Du tout!To give up nature’s just what would not do.By all means keep your sweet ingenuous graces,And use them at the proper times and places.For work, for play, for business, talk and love,I own as wisdom truly from above,That scripture of the serpent and the dove;Nor’s aught so perfect for the world’s affairsAs the old parable of wheat and tares;What we all love is good touched up with evil—Religion’s self must have a spice of devil.Di.Let it be enough,That in our needful mixture with the world,On each new morning with the rising sun,Our rising heart, fresh from the seas of sleep,Scarce o’er the level lifts his purer orbEre lost and sullied with polluting smoke—A noon-day coppery disk. Lo, scarce come forth,Some vagrant miscreant meets, and with a lookTransmutes me his, and for a whole sick dayLepers me.Sp.Just the one thing, I assure you,From which good company can’t but secure you.About the individual’s not so clear,But who can doubt the general atmosphere?Di.Ay truly, who at first? but in a while——Sp.O dear, this o’er-discernment makes me smile.You don’t pretend to tell me you can seeWithout one touch of melting sympathyThose lovely, stately flowers that fill with bloomThe brilliant season’s gay parterre-like room,Moving serene yet swiftly through the dances;Those graceful forms and perfect countenances,Whose every fold and line in all their dressesSomething refined and exquisite expresses.To see them smile and hear them talk so sweetly,In me destroys all lower thoughts completely;I really seem, without exaggeration,To experience the true regeneration.One’s own dress, too—one’s manner, what one’s doingAnd saying, all assist to one’s renewing.I love to see, in these their fitting places,The bows, the forms, and all you call grimaces.I heartily could wish we’d kept some more of them,However much we talk about the bore of them.Fact is, your awkward parvenus are shy at it,Afraid to look like waiters if they try at it.’Tis sad to what democracy is leading—Give me your Eighteenth Century for high breeding.Though I can put up gladly with the present,And quite can think our modern parties pleasant.One shouldn’t analyse the thing too nearly:The main effect is admirable clearly.‘Good manners,’ said our great-aunts, ‘next to piety:’And so my friend, hurrah for good society!

Sp.Come, then,

And with my aid go into good society.

Life little loves, ’tis true, this peevish piety;

E’en they with whom it thinks to be securest—

Your most religious, delicatest, purest—

Discern, and show as pious people can

Their feeling that you are not quite a man.

Still the thing has its place; and with sagacity,

Much might be done by one of your capacity.

A virtuous attachment formed judiciously

Would come, one sees, uncommonly propitiously:

Turn you but your affections the right way,

And what mayn’t happen none of us can say;

For in despite of devils and of mothers,

Your good young men make catches, too, like others.

Di.To herd with people that one owns no care for;Friend it with strangers that one sees but once;To drain the heart with endless complaisance;To warp the unfinished diction on the lip,And twist one’s mouth to counterfeit; enforceReluctant looks to falsehood; base-alloyThe ingenuous golden frankness of the past;To calculate and plot; be rough and smooth,Forward and silent, deferential, cool,Not by one’s humour, which is the safe truth,But on consideration.

Di.To herd with people that one owns no care for;

Friend it with strangers that one sees but once;

To drain the heart with endless complaisance;

To warp the unfinished diction on the lip,

And twist one’s mouth to counterfeit; enforce

Reluctant looks to falsehood; base-alloy

The ingenuous golden frankness of the past;

To calculate and plot; be rough and smooth,

Forward and silent, deferential, cool,

Not by one’s humour, which is the safe truth,

But on consideration.

Sp.That is, actOn a dispassionate judgment of the fact;Look all the data fairly in the face,And rule your judgment simply by the case.

Sp.That is, act

On a dispassionate judgment of the fact;

Look all the data fairly in the face,

And rule your judgment simply by the case.

Di.On vile consideration. At the best,With pallid hotbed courtesies to forestallThe green and vernal spontaneity,And waste the priceless moments of the manIn regulating manner. Whether these thingsBe right, I do not know: I only know ’tisTo lose one’s youth too early. Oh, not yet—Not yet I make the sacrifice.

Di.On vile consideration. At the best,

With pallid hotbed courtesies to forestall

The green and vernal spontaneity,

And waste the priceless moments of the man

In regulating manner. Whether these things

Be right, I do not know: I only know ’tis

To lose one’s youth too early. Oh, not yet—

Not yet I make the sacrifice.

Sp.Du tout!To give up nature’s just what would not do.By all means keep your sweet ingenuous graces,And use them at the proper times and places.For work, for play, for business, talk and love,I own as wisdom truly from above,That scripture of the serpent and the dove;Nor’s aught so perfect for the world’s affairsAs the old parable of wheat and tares;What we all love is good touched up with evil—Religion’s self must have a spice of devil.

Sp.Du tout!

To give up nature’s just what would not do.

By all means keep your sweet ingenuous graces,

And use them at the proper times and places.

For work, for play, for business, talk and love,

I own as wisdom truly from above,

That scripture of the serpent and the dove;

Nor’s aught so perfect for the world’s affairs

As the old parable of wheat and tares;

What we all love is good touched up with evil—

Religion’s self must have a spice of devil.

Di.Let it be enough,That in our needful mixture with the world,On each new morning with the rising sun,Our rising heart, fresh from the seas of sleep,Scarce o’er the level lifts his purer orbEre lost and sullied with polluting smoke—A noon-day coppery disk. Lo, scarce come forth,Some vagrant miscreant meets, and with a lookTransmutes me his, and for a whole sick dayLepers me.

Di.Let it be enough,

That in our needful mixture with the world,

On each new morning with the rising sun,

Our rising heart, fresh from the seas of sleep,

Scarce o’er the level lifts his purer orb

Ere lost and sullied with polluting smoke—

A noon-day coppery disk. Lo, scarce come forth,

Some vagrant miscreant meets, and with a look

Transmutes me his, and for a whole sick day

Lepers me.

Sp.Just the one thing, I assure you,From which good company can’t but secure you.About the individual’s not so clear,But who can doubt the general atmosphere?

Sp.Just the one thing, I assure you,

From which good company can’t but secure you.

About the individual’s not so clear,

But who can doubt the general atmosphere?

Di.Ay truly, who at first? but in a while——

Sp.O dear, this o’er-discernment makes me smile.You don’t pretend to tell me you can seeWithout one touch of melting sympathyThose lovely, stately flowers that fill with bloomThe brilliant season’s gay parterre-like room,Moving serene yet swiftly through the dances;Those graceful forms and perfect countenances,Whose every fold and line in all their dressesSomething refined and exquisite expresses.To see them smile and hear them talk so sweetly,In me destroys all lower thoughts completely;I really seem, without exaggeration,To experience the true regeneration.One’s own dress, too—one’s manner, what one’s doingAnd saying, all assist to one’s renewing.I love to see, in these their fitting places,The bows, the forms, and all you call grimaces.I heartily could wish we’d kept some more of them,However much we talk about the bore of them.Fact is, your awkward parvenus are shy at it,Afraid to look like waiters if they try at it.’Tis sad to what democracy is leading—Give me your Eighteenth Century for high breeding.Though I can put up gladly with the present,And quite can think our modern parties pleasant.One shouldn’t analyse the thing too nearly:The main effect is admirable clearly.‘Good manners,’ said our great-aunts, ‘next to piety:’And so my friend, hurrah for good society!

Sp.O dear, this o’er-discernment makes me smile.

You don’t pretend to tell me you can see

Without one touch of melting sympathy

Those lovely, stately flowers that fill with bloom

The brilliant season’s gay parterre-like room,

Moving serene yet swiftly through the dances;

Those graceful forms and perfect countenances,

Whose every fold and line in all their dresses

Something refined and exquisite expresses.

To see them smile and hear them talk so sweetly,

In me destroys all lower thoughts completely;

I really seem, without exaggeration,

To experience the true regeneration.

One’s own dress, too—one’s manner, what one’s doing

And saying, all assist to one’s renewing.

I love to see, in these their fitting places,

The bows, the forms, and all you call grimaces.

I heartily could wish we’d kept some more of them,

However much we talk about the bore of them.

Fact is, your awkward parvenus are shy at it,

Afraid to look like waiters if they try at it.

’Tis sad to what democracy is leading—

Give me your Eighteenth Century for high breeding.

Though I can put up gladly with the present,

And quite can think our modern parties pleasant.

One shouldn’t analyse the thing too nearly:

The main effect is admirable clearly.

‘Good manners,’ said our great-aunts, ‘next to piety:’

And so my friend, hurrah for good society!

Sp.Insulted! by the living Lord!He laid his hand upon his sword.‘Fort,’ did he say? a German brute,With neither heart nor brains to shoot.Di.What does he mean? he’s wrong, I had done nothing.’Twas a mistake—more his, I am sure, than mine.He is quite wrong—I feel it. Come, let us go.Sp.Go up to him!—you must, that’s flat.Be threatened by a beast like that!Di.He’s violent: what can I do against him?I neither wish to be killed nor to kill:What’s more, I never yet have touched a sword,Nor fired, but twice, a pistol in my life.Sp.Oh, never mind, ’twon’t come to fighting—Only some verbal small requiting;Or give your card—we’ll do’t by writing.He’ll not stick to it. Soldiers tooAre cowards, just like me or you.What! not a single word to throw atThis snarling dog of a d——d Croat?Di.My heavens! why should I care? he does not hurt me.If he is wrong, it is the worst for him.I certainly did nothing: I shall go.Sp.Did nothing! I should think not; no,Nor ever will, I dare be sworn!But, O my friend, well-bred, well-born—You to behave so in these quarrelsMakes me half doubtful of your morals!...It were all one,You had been some shopkeeper’s son,Whose childhood ne’er was shown aught betterThan bills of creditor and debtor.Di.By heaven, it falls from off me like the rainFrom the oil-coat. I seem in spirit to seeHow he and I at some great day shall meetBefore some awful judgment-seat of truth;And I could deem that I behold him thereCome praying for the pardon I give now,Did I not think these matters too, too smallFor any record on the leaves of time.O thou great Watcher of this noisy world,What are they in Thy sight? or what in hisWho finds some end of action in his life?What e’en in his whose sole permitted courseIs to pursue his peaceful byway walk,And live his brief life purely in Thy sight,And righteously towards his brother-men?Sp.And whether, so you’re just and fair,Other folks are so, you don’t care;You who profess more love than othersFor your poor sinful human brothers.Di.For grosser evils their gross remediesThe laws afford us; let us be content;For finer wounds the law would, if it could,Find medicine too; it cannot, let us bear;For sufferance is the badge of all men’s tribes.Sp.Because we can’t do all we would,Does it follow, to do nothing’s good?No way to help the law’s rough senseBy equities of self-defence?Well, for yourself it may be niceTo serve vulgarity and vice:Must sisters, too, and wives and mothers,Fare like their patient sons and brothers?Di.He that loves sister, mother, more than me——Sp.But the injustice—the gross wrong!To whom on earth does it belongIf not to you, to whom ’twas done,Who saw it plain as any sun,To make the base and foul offenderConfess, and satisfaction render?At least before the termination of itProve your own lofty reprobation of it.Though gentleness, I know, was born in you,Surely you have a little scorn in you?Di.Heaven! to pollute one’s fingers to pick upThe fallen coin of honour from the dirt—Pure silver though it be, let it rather lie!To take up any offence, where’t may be saidThat temper, vanity—I know not what—Had led me on!To have so much as e’en half felt of oneThat ever one was angered for oneself!Beyond suspicion Cæsar’s wife should be,Beyond suspicion this bright honour shall.Did he say scorn? I have some scorn, thank God.Sp.Certainly. Only if it’s so,Let us leave Italy, and goPost haste, to attend—you’re ripe and rank for’t—The great peace-meeting up at Frankfort.Joy to the Croat! Take our lives,Sweet friends, and please respect our wives;Joy to the Croat! Some fine day,He’ll see the error of his way,No doubt, and will repent and pray.At any rate he’ll open his eyes,If not before, at the Last Assize.Not, if I rightly understood you,That even then you’d punish, would you?Nay, let the hapless soul go free—Mere murder, crime, or robbery,In whate’er station, age, or sex,Your sacred spirit scarce can vex:De minimis non curat lex.To the Peace Congress! ring the bell!Horses to Frankfort and to ——!Di.I am not quite in union with myselfOn this strange matter. I must needs confessInstinct turns instinct out, and thoughtWheels round on thought. To bleed for others’ wrongsIn vindication of a cause, to drawThe sword of the Lord and Gideon—oh, that seemsThe flower and top of life! But fight becauseSome poor misconstruing trifler haps to sayI lie, when I do not lie,Why should I? Call you this a cause? I can’t.Oh, he is wrong, no doubt; he misbehaves—But is it worth so much as speaking loud?And things so merely personal to myselfOf all earth’s things do least affect myself.Sp.Sweet eloquence! at next May MeetingHow it would tell in the repeating!I recognise, and kiss the rod—The methodistic ‘voice of God;’I catch contrite that angel whine,That snuffle human, yet divine.Di.It may be I am somewhat of a poltroon;I never fought at school; whether it beSome native poorness in my spirit’s blood,Or that the holy doctrine of our faithIn too exclusive fervency possessedMy heart with feelings, with ideas my brain.Sp.Yes; you would argue that it goesAgainst the Bible, I suppose;But our revered religion—yes,Our common faith—seems, I confess,On these points to propose to addressThe people more than you or me—At best the vulgar bourgeoisie.The sacred writers don’t keep count,But still the Sermon on the MountMust have been spoken, by what’s stated,To hearers by the thousands rated.I cuff some fellow; mild and meekHe should turn round the other cheek.For him it may be right and good;We are not all of gentle bloodReally, or as such understood.Di.There are two kindreds upon earth, I know—The oppressors and the oppressed. But as for me,If I must choose to inflict wrong, or accept,May my last end, and life too, be with these.Yes; whatsoe’er the reason, want of blood,Lymphatic humours, or my childhood’s faith,So is the thing, and be it well or ill,I have no choice. I am a man of peace,And the old Adam of the gentlemanDares seldom in my bosom stir againstThe mild plebeian Christian seated there.Sp.Forgive me, if I name my doubt,Whether you know ‘fort’ means ‘get out.’

Sp.Insulted! by the living Lord!He laid his hand upon his sword.‘Fort,’ did he say? a German brute,With neither heart nor brains to shoot.

Sp.Insulted! by the living Lord!

He laid his hand upon his sword.

‘Fort,’ did he say? a German brute,

With neither heart nor brains to shoot.

Di.What does he mean? he’s wrong, I had done nothing.’Twas a mistake—more his, I am sure, than mine.He is quite wrong—I feel it. Come, let us go.

Di.What does he mean? he’s wrong, I had done nothing.

’Twas a mistake—more his, I am sure, than mine.

He is quite wrong—I feel it. Come, let us go.

Sp.Go up to him!—you must, that’s flat.Be threatened by a beast like that!

Sp.Go up to him!—you must, that’s flat.

Be threatened by a beast like that!

Di.He’s violent: what can I do against him?I neither wish to be killed nor to kill:What’s more, I never yet have touched a sword,Nor fired, but twice, a pistol in my life.

Di.He’s violent: what can I do against him?

I neither wish to be killed nor to kill:

What’s more, I never yet have touched a sword,

Nor fired, but twice, a pistol in my life.

Sp.Oh, never mind, ’twon’t come to fighting—Only some verbal small requiting;Or give your card—we’ll do’t by writing.He’ll not stick to it. Soldiers tooAre cowards, just like me or you.What! not a single word to throw atThis snarling dog of a d——d Croat?

Sp.Oh, never mind, ’twon’t come to fighting—

Only some verbal small requiting;

Or give your card—we’ll do’t by writing.

He’ll not stick to it. Soldiers too

Are cowards, just like me or you.

What! not a single word to throw at

This snarling dog of a d——d Croat?

Di.My heavens! why should I care? he does not hurt me.If he is wrong, it is the worst for him.I certainly did nothing: I shall go.

Di.My heavens! why should I care? he does not hurt me.

If he is wrong, it is the worst for him.

I certainly did nothing: I shall go.

Sp.Did nothing! I should think not; no,Nor ever will, I dare be sworn!But, O my friend, well-bred, well-born—You to behave so in these quarrelsMakes me half doubtful of your morals!...It were all one,You had been some shopkeeper’s son,Whose childhood ne’er was shown aught betterThan bills of creditor and debtor.

Sp.Did nothing! I should think not; no,

Nor ever will, I dare be sworn!

But, O my friend, well-bred, well-born—

You to behave so in these quarrels

Makes me half doubtful of your morals!

...It were all one,

You had been some shopkeeper’s son,

Whose childhood ne’er was shown aught better

Than bills of creditor and debtor.

Di.By heaven, it falls from off me like the rainFrom the oil-coat. I seem in spirit to seeHow he and I at some great day shall meetBefore some awful judgment-seat of truth;And I could deem that I behold him thereCome praying for the pardon I give now,Did I not think these matters too, too smallFor any record on the leaves of time.O thou great Watcher of this noisy world,What are they in Thy sight? or what in hisWho finds some end of action in his life?What e’en in his whose sole permitted courseIs to pursue his peaceful byway walk,And live his brief life purely in Thy sight,And righteously towards his brother-men?

Di.By heaven, it falls from off me like the rain

From the oil-coat. I seem in spirit to see

How he and I at some great day shall meet

Before some awful judgment-seat of truth;

And I could deem that I behold him there

Come praying for the pardon I give now,

Did I not think these matters too, too small

For any record on the leaves of time.

O thou great Watcher of this noisy world,

What are they in Thy sight? or what in his

Who finds some end of action in his life?

What e’en in his whose sole permitted course

Is to pursue his peaceful byway walk,

And live his brief life purely in Thy sight,

And righteously towards his brother-men?

Sp.And whether, so you’re just and fair,Other folks are so, you don’t care;You who profess more love than othersFor your poor sinful human brothers.

Sp.And whether, so you’re just and fair,

Other folks are so, you don’t care;

You who profess more love than others

For your poor sinful human brothers.

Di.For grosser evils their gross remediesThe laws afford us; let us be content;For finer wounds the law would, if it could,Find medicine too; it cannot, let us bear;For sufferance is the badge of all men’s tribes.

Di.For grosser evils their gross remedies

The laws afford us; let us be content;

For finer wounds the law would, if it could,

Find medicine too; it cannot, let us bear;

For sufferance is the badge of all men’s tribes.

Sp.Because we can’t do all we would,Does it follow, to do nothing’s good?No way to help the law’s rough senseBy equities of self-defence?Well, for yourself it may be niceTo serve vulgarity and vice:Must sisters, too, and wives and mothers,Fare like their patient sons and brothers?

Sp.Because we can’t do all we would,

Does it follow, to do nothing’s good?

No way to help the law’s rough sense

By equities of self-defence?

Well, for yourself it may be nice

To serve vulgarity and vice:

Must sisters, too, and wives and mothers,

Fare like their patient sons and brothers?

Di.He that loves sister, mother, more than me——

Sp.But the injustice—the gross wrong!To whom on earth does it belongIf not to you, to whom ’twas done,Who saw it plain as any sun,To make the base and foul offenderConfess, and satisfaction render?At least before the termination of itProve your own lofty reprobation of it.Though gentleness, I know, was born in you,Surely you have a little scorn in you?

Sp.But the injustice—the gross wrong!

To whom on earth does it belong

If not to you, to whom ’twas done,

Who saw it plain as any sun,

To make the base and foul offender

Confess, and satisfaction render?

At least before the termination of it

Prove your own lofty reprobation of it.

Though gentleness, I know, was born in you,

Surely you have a little scorn in you?

Di.Heaven! to pollute one’s fingers to pick upThe fallen coin of honour from the dirt—Pure silver though it be, let it rather lie!To take up any offence, where’t may be saidThat temper, vanity—I know not what—Had led me on!To have so much as e’en half felt of oneThat ever one was angered for oneself!Beyond suspicion Cæsar’s wife should be,Beyond suspicion this bright honour shall.Did he say scorn? I have some scorn, thank God.

Di.Heaven! to pollute one’s fingers to pick up

The fallen coin of honour from the dirt—

Pure silver though it be, let it rather lie!

To take up any offence, where’t may be said

That temper, vanity—I know not what—

Had led me on!

To have so much as e’en half felt of one

That ever one was angered for oneself!

Beyond suspicion Cæsar’s wife should be,

Beyond suspicion this bright honour shall.

Did he say scorn? I have some scorn, thank God.

Sp.Certainly. Only if it’s so,Let us leave Italy, and goPost haste, to attend—you’re ripe and rank for’t—The great peace-meeting up at Frankfort.Joy to the Croat! Take our lives,Sweet friends, and please respect our wives;Joy to the Croat! Some fine day,He’ll see the error of his way,No doubt, and will repent and pray.At any rate he’ll open his eyes,If not before, at the Last Assize.Not, if I rightly understood you,That even then you’d punish, would you?Nay, let the hapless soul go free—Mere murder, crime, or robbery,In whate’er station, age, or sex,Your sacred spirit scarce can vex:De minimis non curat lex.To the Peace Congress! ring the bell!Horses to Frankfort and to ——!

Sp.Certainly. Only if it’s so,

Let us leave Italy, and go

Post haste, to attend—you’re ripe and rank for’t—

The great peace-meeting up at Frankfort.

Joy to the Croat! Take our lives,

Sweet friends, and please respect our wives;

Joy to the Croat! Some fine day,

He’ll see the error of his way,

No doubt, and will repent and pray.

At any rate he’ll open his eyes,

If not before, at the Last Assize.

Not, if I rightly understood you,

That even then you’d punish, would you?

Nay, let the hapless soul go free—

Mere murder, crime, or robbery,

In whate’er station, age, or sex,

Your sacred spirit scarce can vex:

De minimis non curat lex.

To the Peace Congress! ring the bell!

Horses to Frankfort and to ——!

Di.I am not quite in union with myselfOn this strange matter. I must needs confessInstinct turns instinct out, and thoughtWheels round on thought. To bleed for others’ wrongsIn vindication of a cause, to drawThe sword of the Lord and Gideon—oh, that seemsThe flower and top of life! But fight becauseSome poor misconstruing trifler haps to sayI lie, when I do not lie,Why should I? Call you this a cause? I can’t.Oh, he is wrong, no doubt; he misbehaves—But is it worth so much as speaking loud?And things so merely personal to myselfOf all earth’s things do least affect myself.

Di.I am not quite in union with myself

On this strange matter. I must needs confess

Instinct turns instinct out, and thought

Wheels round on thought. To bleed for others’ wrongs

In vindication of a cause, to draw

The sword of the Lord and Gideon—oh, that seems

The flower and top of life! But fight because

Some poor misconstruing trifler haps to say

I lie, when I do not lie,

Why should I? Call you this a cause? I can’t.

Oh, he is wrong, no doubt; he misbehaves—

But is it worth so much as speaking loud?

And things so merely personal to myself

Of all earth’s things do least affect myself.

Sp.Sweet eloquence! at next May MeetingHow it would tell in the repeating!I recognise, and kiss the rod—The methodistic ‘voice of God;’I catch contrite that angel whine,That snuffle human, yet divine.

Sp.Sweet eloquence! at next May Meeting

How it would tell in the repeating!

I recognise, and kiss the rod—

The methodistic ‘voice of God;’

I catch contrite that angel whine,

That snuffle human, yet divine.

Di.It may be I am somewhat of a poltroon;I never fought at school; whether it beSome native poorness in my spirit’s blood,Or that the holy doctrine of our faithIn too exclusive fervency possessedMy heart with feelings, with ideas my brain.

Di.It may be I am somewhat of a poltroon;

I never fought at school; whether it be

Some native poorness in my spirit’s blood,

Or that the holy doctrine of our faith

In too exclusive fervency possessed

My heart with feelings, with ideas my brain.

Sp.Yes; you would argue that it goesAgainst the Bible, I suppose;But our revered religion—yes,Our common faith—seems, I confess,On these points to propose to addressThe people more than you or me—At best the vulgar bourgeoisie.The sacred writers don’t keep count,But still the Sermon on the MountMust have been spoken, by what’s stated,To hearers by the thousands rated.I cuff some fellow; mild and meekHe should turn round the other cheek.For him it may be right and good;We are not all of gentle bloodReally, or as such understood.

Sp.Yes; you would argue that it goes

Against the Bible, I suppose;

But our revered religion—yes,

Our common faith—seems, I confess,

On these points to propose to address

The people more than you or me—

At best the vulgar bourgeoisie.

The sacred writers don’t keep count,

But still the Sermon on the Mount

Must have been spoken, by what’s stated,

To hearers by the thousands rated.

I cuff some fellow; mild and meek

He should turn round the other cheek.

For him it may be right and good;

We are not all of gentle blood

Really, or as such understood.

Di.There are two kindreds upon earth, I know—The oppressors and the oppressed. But as for me,If I must choose to inflict wrong, or accept,May my last end, and life too, be with these.Yes; whatsoe’er the reason, want of blood,Lymphatic humours, or my childhood’s faith,So is the thing, and be it well or ill,I have no choice. I am a man of peace,And the old Adam of the gentlemanDares seldom in my bosom stir againstThe mild plebeian Christian seated there.

Di.There are two kindreds upon earth, I know—

The oppressors and the oppressed. But as for me,

If I must choose to inflict wrong, or accept,

May my last end, and life too, be with these.

Yes; whatsoe’er the reason, want of blood,

Lymphatic humours, or my childhood’s faith,

So is the thing, and be it well or ill,

I have no choice. I am a man of peace,

And the old Adam of the gentleman

Dares seldom in my bosom stir against

The mild plebeian Christian seated there.

Sp.Forgive me, if I name my doubt,Whether you know ‘fort’ means ‘get out.’

Sp.Forgive me, if I name my doubt,

Whether you know ‘fort’ means ‘get out.’

Sp.What now? the Lido shall it be?That none may say we didn’t seeThe ground which Byron used to ride on,And do I don’t know what beside on.Ho, barca! here! and this light galeWill let us run it with a sail.Di.I dreamt a dream: till morning lightA bell rang in my head all night,Tinkling and tinkling first, and thenTolling and tinkling, tolling again,So brisk and gay, and then so slow!O joy and terror! mirth and woe!Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting,—Dong, there is no God; dong,There is no God; dong, dong.Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting.Come, dance and play, and merrily sing,Staid Englishman, who toil and slaveFrom your first childhood to your grave,And seldom spend and always save—And do your duty all your lifeBy your young family and wife;Come, be’t not said you ne’er had knownWhat earth can furnish you alone.The Italian, Frenchman, German even,Have given up all thoughts of heaven:And you still linger—oh, you fool!—Because of what you learnt at school.You should have gone at least to college,And got a little ampler knowledge.Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:Do as you like, as now you do;If work’s a cheat, so’s pleasure too.And nothing’s new and nothing’s true;Dong, there is no God; dong.O, in our nook unknown, unseen,We’ll hold our fancy like a screenUs and the dreadful fact between;And it shall yet be long—ay, long—The quiet notes of our low songShall keep us from that sad dong, dong.—Hark, hark, hark! O voice of fear,It reaches us here, even here!Dong, there is no God; dong.Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,To battle, to battle—haste, haste—To battle, to battle—aha, aha!On, on, to the conqueror’s feast,From east to west, and south and north,Ye men of valour and of worth,Ye mighty men of arms come forth,And work your will, for that is just;And in your impulse put your trust,Beneath your feet the fools are dust.Alas, alas! O grief and wrong,The good are weak, the wicked strong;And O my God, how long, how long!Dong, there is no God; dong.Ring, ting; to bow before the strong,There is a rapture too in this;Work for thy master, work, thou slave—He is not merciful, but brave.Be’t joy to serve, who free and proudScorns thee and all the ignoble crowd;Take that, ’tis all thou art allowed,Except the snaky hope that theyMay sometime serve who rule to-day.When, by hell-demons, shan’t they pay?O wickedness, O shame and grief,And heavy load, and no relief!O God, O God! and which is worst,To be the curser or the curst,The victim or the murderer? Dong.Dong, there is no God; dong.Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,Away, and hush that preaching—fagh!Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,Who offer noblest hearts, to healThe tenderest hurts honour can feel,Paid magistrates and the police!O peddling merchant-justice, go,Exacter rules than yours we know;Resentment’s rule, and that high lawOf whoso best the sword can draw.Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong.Go on, my friends, as now you do;Lawyers are villains, soldiers too;And nothing’s new and nothing’s true.Dong, there is no God; dong.I had a dream, from eve to lightA bell went sounding all the night.Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain:I tried to stop it, but in vain.It ran right on, and never broke;Only when day began to streamThrough the white curtains to my bed,And like an angel at my headLight stood and touched me—I awoke,And looked, and said, ‘It is a dream.’Sp.Ah! not so bad. You’ve read, I see,Your Béranger, and thought of me.But really you owe some apologyFor harping thus upon theology.I’m not a judge, I own; in short,Religion may not be my forte.The Church of England I belong to,And think Dissenters not far wrong too;They’re vulgar dogs; but for hiscreedI hold that no man will be d——d.But come and listen in your turn,And you shall hear and mark and learn.‘There is no God,’ the wicked saith,‘And truly it’s a blessing,For what He might have done with usIt’s better only guessing.’‘There is no God,’ a youngster thinks,‘Or really, if there may be,He surely didn’t mean a manAlways to be a baby.’‘There is no God, or if there is,’The tradesman thinks, ‘’twere funnyIf He should take it ill in meTo make a little money.’‘Whether there be,’ the rich man says,‘It matters very little,For I and mine, thank somebody,Are not in want of victual.’Some others, also, to themselves,Who scarce so much as doubt it,Think there is none, when they are well,And do not think about it.But country folks who live beneathThe shadow of the steeple;The parson and the parson’s wife,And mostly married people;Youths green and happy in first love,So thankful for illusion;And men caught out in what the worldCalls guilt, in first confusion;And almost every one when age,Disease, or sorrows strike him,Inclines to think there is a God,Or something very like Him.Buteccoci! with ourbarchetta,Here at the Sant’ Elisabetta.Di.Vineyards and maize, that’s pleasant for sore eyes.Sp.And on the island’s other side,The place where Murray’s faithful GuideInforms us Byron used to ride.Di.The trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho!The sea, at last the sea—the real broad sea—Beautiful! and a glorious breeze upon it.Sp.Look back; one catches at this stationLagoon and sea in combination.Di.On her still lake the city sits,Where bark and boat around her flits,Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking,Of Adriatic billows breaking.I do; I see and hear them. Come! to the sea!Oh, a grand surge! we’ll bathe; quick, quick!—undress!Quick, quick!—in, in!We’ll take the crested billows by their backsAnd shake them. Quick! in, in!And I will taste again the old joyI gloried in so when a boy;Aha! come, come—great waters, roll!Accept me, take me, body and soul!That’s done me good. It grieves me though,I never came here long ago.Sp.Pleasant, perhaps; however, no offence,Animal spirits are not common sense;They’re good enough as an assistance,But in themselves a poor existence.But you, with this one bathe, no doubt,Have solved all questions out and out.

Sp.What now? the Lido shall it be?

That none may say we didn’t see

The ground which Byron used to ride on,

And do I don’t know what beside on.

Ho, barca! here! and this light gale

Will let us run it with a sail.

Di.I dreamt a dream: till morning lightA bell rang in my head all night,Tinkling and tinkling first, and thenTolling and tinkling, tolling again,So brisk and gay, and then so slow!O joy and terror! mirth and woe!Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting,—Dong, there is no God; dong,There is no God; dong, dong.

Di.I dreamt a dream: till morning light

A bell rang in my head all night,

Tinkling and tinkling first, and then

Tolling and tinkling, tolling again,

So brisk and gay, and then so slow!

O joy and terror! mirth and woe!

Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting,—

Dong, there is no God; dong,

There is no God; dong, dong.

Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting.Come, dance and play, and merrily sing,Staid Englishman, who toil and slaveFrom your first childhood to your grave,And seldom spend and always save—And do your duty all your lifeBy your young family and wife;Come, be’t not said you ne’er had knownWhat earth can furnish you alone.The Italian, Frenchman, German even,Have given up all thoughts of heaven:And you still linger—oh, you fool!—Because of what you learnt at school.You should have gone at least to college,And got a little ampler knowledge.Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:Do as you like, as now you do;If work’s a cheat, so’s pleasure too.And nothing’s new and nothing’s true;Dong, there is no God; dong.

Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting.

Come, dance and play, and merrily sing,

Staid Englishman, who toil and slave

From your first childhood to your grave,

And seldom spend and always save—

And do your duty all your life

By your young family and wife;

Come, be’t not said you ne’er had known

What earth can furnish you alone.

The Italian, Frenchman, German even,

Have given up all thoughts of heaven:

And you still linger—oh, you fool!—

Because of what you learnt at school.

You should have gone at least to college,

And got a little ampler knowledge.

Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:

Do as you like, as now you do;

If work’s a cheat, so’s pleasure too.

And nothing’s new and nothing’s true;

Dong, there is no God; dong.

O, in our nook unknown, unseen,We’ll hold our fancy like a screenUs and the dreadful fact between;And it shall yet be long—ay, long—The quiet notes of our low songShall keep us from that sad dong, dong.—Hark, hark, hark! O voice of fear,It reaches us here, even here!Dong, there is no God; dong.

O, in our nook unknown, unseen,

We’ll hold our fancy like a screen

Us and the dreadful fact between;

And it shall yet be long—ay, long—

The quiet notes of our low song

Shall keep us from that sad dong, dong.—

Hark, hark, hark! O voice of fear,

It reaches us here, even here!

Dong, there is no God; dong.

Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,To battle, to battle—haste, haste—To battle, to battle—aha, aha!On, on, to the conqueror’s feast,From east to west, and south and north,Ye men of valour and of worth,Ye mighty men of arms come forth,And work your will, for that is just;And in your impulse put your trust,Beneath your feet the fools are dust.Alas, alas! O grief and wrong,The good are weak, the wicked strong;And O my God, how long, how long!Dong, there is no God; dong.

Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,

To battle, to battle—haste, haste—

To battle, to battle—aha, aha!

On, on, to the conqueror’s feast,

From east to west, and south and north,

Ye men of valour and of worth,

Ye mighty men of arms come forth,

And work your will, for that is just;

And in your impulse put your trust,

Beneath your feet the fools are dust.

Alas, alas! O grief and wrong,

The good are weak, the wicked strong;

And O my God, how long, how long!

Dong, there is no God; dong.

Ring, ting; to bow before the strong,There is a rapture too in this;Work for thy master, work, thou slave—He is not merciful, but brave.Be’t joy to serve, who free and proudScorns thee and all the ignoble crowd;Take that, ’tis all thou art allowed,Except the snaky hope that theyMay sometime serve who rule to-day.When, by hell-demons, shan’t they pay?O wickedness, O shame and grief,And heavy load, and no relief!O God, O God! and which is worst,To be the curser or the curst,The victim or the murderer? Dong.Dong, there is no God; dong.Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,Away, and hush that preaching—fagh!Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,Who offer noblest hearts, to healThe tenderest hurts honour can feel,Paid magistrates and the police!O peddling merchant-justice, go,Exacter rules than yours we know;Resentment’s rule, and that high lawOf whoso best the sword can draw.Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong.Go on, my friends, as now you do;Lawyers are villains, soldiers too;And nothing’s new and nothing’s true.Dong, there is no God; dong.

Ring, ting; to bow before the strong,

There is a rapture too in this;

Work for thy master, work, thou slave—

He is not merciful, but brave.

Be’t joy to serve, who free and proud

Scorns thee and all the ignoble crowd;

Take that, ’tis all thou art allowed,

Except the snaky hope that they

May sometime serve who rule to-day.

When, by hell-demons, shan’t they pay?

O wickedness, O shame and grief,

And heavy load, and no relief!

O God, O God! and which is worst,

To be the curser or the curst,

The victim or the murderer? Dong.

Dong, there is no God; dong.

Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,

Away, and hush that preaching—fagh!

Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,

Who offer noblest hearts, to heal

The tenderest hurts honour can feel,

Paid magistrates and the police!

O peddling merchant-justice, go,

Exacter rules than yours we know;

Resentment’s rule, and that high law

Of whoso best the sword can draw.

Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong.

Go on, my friends, as now you do;

Lawyers are villains, soldiers too;

And nothing’s new and nothing’s true.

Dong, there is no God; dong.

I had a dream, from eve to lightA bell went sounding all the night.Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain:I tried to stop it, but in vain.It ran right on, and never broke;Only when day began to streamThrough the white curtains to my bed,And like an angel at my headLight stood and touched me—I awoke,And looked, and said, ‘It is a dream.’

I had a dream, from eve to light

A bell went sounding all the night.

Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain:

I tried to stop it, but in vain.

It ran right on, and never broke;

Only when day began to stream

Through the white curtains to my bed,

And like an angel at my head

Light stood and touched me—I awoke,

And looked, and said, ‘It is a dream.’

Sp.Ah! not so bad. You’ve read, I see,Your Béranger, and thought of me.But really you owe some apologyFor harping thus upon theology.I’m not a judge, I own; in short,Religion may not be my forte.The Church of England I belong to,And think Dissenters not far wrong too;They’re vulgar dogs; but for hiscreedI hold that no man will be d——d.But come and listen in your turn,And you shall hear and mark and learn.

Sp.Ah! not so bad. You’ve read, I see,

Your Béranger, and thought of me.

But really you owe some apology

For harping thus upon theology.

I’m not a judge, I own; in short,

Religion may not be my forte.

The Church of England I belong to,

And think Dissenters not far wrong too;

They’re vulgar dogs; but for hiscreed

I hold that no man will be d——d.

But come and listen in your turn,

And you shall hear and mark and learn.

‘There is no God,’ the wicked saith,‘And truly it’s a blessing,For what He might have done with usIt’s better only guessing.’

‘There is no God,’ the wicked saith,

‘And truly it’s a blessing,

For what He might have done with us

It’s better only guessing.’

‘There is no God,’ a youngster thinks,‘Or really, if there may be,He surely didn’t mean a manAlways to be a baby.’

‘There is no God,’ a youngster thinks,

‘Or really, if there may be,

He surely didn’t mean a man

Always to be a baby.’

‘There is no God, or if there is,’The tradesman thinks, ‘’twere funnyIf He should take it ill in meTo make a little money.’

‘There is no God, or if there is,’

The tradesman thinks, ‘’twere funny

If He should take it ill in me

To make a little money.’

‘Whether there be,’ the rich man says,‘It matters very little,For I and mine, thank somebody,Are not in want of victual.’

‘Whether there be,’ the rich man says,

‘It matters very little,

For I and mine, thank somebody,

Are not in want of victual.’

Some others, also, to themselves,Who scarce so much as doubt it,Think there is none, when they are well,And do not think about it.

Some others, also, to themselves,

Who scarce so much as doubt it,

Think there is none, when they are well,

And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneathThe shadow of the steeple;The parson and the parson’s wife,And mostly married people;

But country folks who live beneath

The shadow of the steeple;

The parson and the parson’s wife,

And mostly married people;

Youths green and happy in first love,So thankful for illusion;And men caught out in what the worldCalls guilt, in first confusion;

Youths green and happy in first love,

So thankful for illusion;

And men caught out in what the world

Calls guilt, in first confusion;

And almost every one when age,Disease, or sorrows strike him,Inclines to think there is a God,Or something very like Him.

And almost every one when age,

Disease, or sorrows strike him,

Inclines to think there is a God,

Or something very like Him.

Buteccoci! with ourbarchetta,Here at the Sant’ Elisabetta.

Buteccoci! with ourbarchetta,

Here at the Sant’ Elisabetta.

Di.Vineyards and maize, that’s pleasant for sore eyes.

Sp.And on the island’s other side,The place where Murray’s faithful GuideInforms us Byron used to ride.

Sp.And on the island’s other side,

The place where Murray’s faithful Guide

Informs us Byron used to ride.

Di.The trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho!The sea, at last the sea—the real broad sea—Beautiful! and a glorious breeze upon it.

Di.The trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho!

The sea, at last the sea—the real broad sea—

Beautiful! and a glorious breeze upon it.

Sp.Look back; one catches at this stationLagoon and sea in combination.

Sp.Look back; one catches at this station

Lagoon and sea in combination.

Di.On her still lake the city sits,Where bark and boat around her flits,Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking,Of Adriatic billows breaking.I do; I see and hear them. Come! to the sea!Oh, a grand surge! we’ll bathe; quick, quick!—undress!Quick, quick!—in, in!We’ll take the crested billows by their backsAnd shake them. Quick! in, in!

Di.On her still lake the city sits,

Where bark and boat around her flits,

Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking,

Of Adriatic billows breaking.

I do; I see and hear them. Come! to the sea!

Oh, a grand surge! we’ll bathe; quick, quick!—undress!

Quick, quick!—in, in!

We’ll take the crested billows by their backs

And shake them. Quick! in, in!

And I will taste again the old joyI gloried in so when a boy;Aha! come, come—great waters, roll!Accept me, take me, body and soul!That’s done me good. It grieves me though,I never came here long ago.

And I will taste again the old joy

I gloried in so when a boy;

Aha! come, come—great waters, roll!

Accept me, take me, body and soul!

That’s done me good. It grieves me though,

I never came here long ago.

Sp.Pleasant, perhaps; however, no offence,Animal spirits are not common sense;They’re good enough as an assistance,But in themselves a poor existence.But you, with this one bathe, no doubt,Have solved all questions out and out.

Sp.Pleasant, perhaps; however, no offence,

Animal spirits are not common sense;

They’re good enough as an assistance,

But in themselves a poor existence.

But you, with this one bathe, no doubt,

Have solved all questions out and out.

Sp.Thunder and rain! O dear, O dear!But see, a noble shelter here,This grand arcade where our VenetianHas formed of Gothic and of GrecianA combination strange, but striking,And singularly to my liking!Let moderns reap where ancients sowed,I at least make it my abode.And now let’s hear your famous Ode:‘Through the great sinful’—how did it go on?For principles of Art and so onI care perhaps about three curses,But hold myself a judge of verses.Di.‘My brain was lightened when my tonguehad said, “Christ is not risen.”’Sp.Well, now it’s anything but clearWhat is the tone that’s taken here:What is your logic? what’s your theology?Is it, or is it not, neology?That’s a great fault; you’re this and that,And here and there, and nothing flat;Yet writing’s golden word what is it,But the three syllables ‘explicit’?Say, if you cannot help it, less,But what you do put, put express.I fear that rule won’t meet your feeling:You think half showing, half concealing,Is God’s own method of revealing.Di.To please my own poor mind! to find repose;To physic the sick soul; to furnish ventTo diseased humours in the moral frame!Sp.A sort of seton, I suppose,A moral bleeding at the nose:H’m;—and the tone too after all,Something of the ironical?Sarcastic, say; or were it fitterTo style it the religious bitter?Di.Interpret it I cannot, I but wrote it.Sp.Perhaps; but none that read can doubt it,There is a strong Strauss-smell about it.Heavens! at your years your time to fritterUpon a critical hair-splitter!Take larger views (and quit your Germans)From the Analogy and sermons;I fancied—you must doubtless know—Butler had proved an age ago,That in religious as profane things’Twas useless trying to explain things;Men’s business-wits, the only sane things,These and compliance are the main things.God, Revelation, and the rest of it,Bad at the best, we make the best of it.Like a good subject and wise man,Believe whatever things you can.Take your religion as ’twas found you,And say no more of it, confound you!And now I think the rain has ended;And the less said, the soonest mended.

Sp.Thunder and rain! O dear, O dear!

But see, a noble shelter here,

This grand arcade where our Venetian

Has formed of Gothic and of Grecian

A combination strange, but striking,

And singularly to my liking!

Let moderns reap where ancients sowed,

I at least make it my abode.

And now let’s hear your famous Ode:

‘Through the great sinful’—how did it go on?

For principles of Art and so on

I care perhaps about three curses,

But hold myself a judge of verses.

Di.‘My brain was lightened when my tonguehad said, “Christ is not risen.”’

Di.‘My brain was lightened when my tongue

had said, “Christ is not risen.”’

Sp.Well, now it’s anything but clearWhat is the tone that’s taken here:What is your logic? what’s your theology?Is it, or is it not, neology?That’s a great fault; you’re this and that,And here and there, and nothing flat;Yet writing’s golden word what is it,But the three syllables ‘explicit’?Say, if you cannot help it, less,But what you do put, put express.I fear that rule won’t meet your feeling:You think half showing, half concealing,Is God’s own method of revealing.

Sp.Well, now it’s anything but clear

What is the tone that’s taken here:

What is your logic? what’s your theology?

Is it, or is it not, neology?

That’s a great fault; you’re this and that,

And here and there, and nothing flat;

Yet writing’s golden word what is it,

But the three syllables ‘explicit’?

Say, if you cannot help it, less,

But what you do put, put express.

I fear that rule won’t meet your feeling:

You think half showing, half concealing,

Is God’s own method of revealing.

Di.To please my own poor mind! to find repose;To physic the sick soul; to furnish ventTo diseased humours in the moral frame!

Di.To please my own poor mind! to find repose;

To physic the sick soul; to furnish vent

To diseased humours in the moral frame!

Sp.A sort of seton, I suppose,A moral bleeding at the nose:H’m;—and the tone too after all,Something of the ironical?Sarcastic, say; or were it fitterTo style it the religious bitter?

Sp.A sort of seton, I suppose,

A moral bleeding at the nose:

H’m;—and the tone too after all,

Something of the ironical?

Sarcastic, say; or were it fitter

To style it the religious bitter?

Di.Interpret it I cannot, I but wrote it.

Sp.Perhaps; but none that read can doubt it,There is a strong Strauss-smell about it.Heavens! at your years your time to fritterUpon a critical hair-splitter!Take larger views (and quit your Germans)From the Analogy and sermons;I fancied—you must doubtless know—Butler had proved an age ago,That in religious as profane things’Twas useless trying to explain things;Men’s business-wits, the only sane things,These and compliance are the main things.God, Revelation, and the rest of it,Bad at the best, we make the best of it.Like a good subject and wise man,Believe whatever things you can.Take your religion as ’twas found you,And say no more of it, confound you!And now I think the rain has ended;And the less said, the soonest mended.

Sp.Perhaps; but none that read can doubt it,

There is a strong Strauss-smell about it.

Heavens! at your years your time to fritter

Upon a critical hair-splitter!

Take larger views (and quit your Germans)

From the Analogy and sermons;

I fancied—you must doubtless know—

Butler had proved an age ago,

That in religious as profane things

’Twas useless trying to explain things;

Men’s business-wits, the only sane things,

These and compliance are the main things.

God, Revelation, and the rest of it,

Bad at the best, we make the best of it.

Like a good subject and wise man,

Believe whatever things you can.

Take your religion as ’twas found you,

And say no more of it, confound you!

And now I think the rain has ended;

And the less said, the soonest mended.

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