Amours de Voyage [11]
Fight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although I Gnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers, What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters? Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle; No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it. Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what's the Roman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic? Why not fight?--In the first place, I haven't so much as a musket; In the next, if I had, I shouldn't know how I should use it; In the third, just at present I'm studying ancient marbles; In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country; In the fifth--I forget, but four good reasons are ample. Meantime, pray let 'em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion. So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs! Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiae; though it would seem this Church is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come kind: Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere! Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother!
IV. Claude to Eustace.
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration, Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in; But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden, Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever, Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,-- Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom. Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine, Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaus Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia, Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining, Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city, Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter. Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces, Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions, Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not, Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow, Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to, Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination! Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
V. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--from Florence.
Dearest Miss Roper,--Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, and You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing! We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles. Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over; Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city. Do you see Mr. Claude?--I thought he might do something for you. I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful. What is he doing? I wonder;--still studying Vatican marbles? Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
VI. Claude to Eustace.
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition? Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer, And, pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended, Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one; And, pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect, Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven. Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion! Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only! Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion, Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge! But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance, Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession? But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service? But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract? But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?-- Ah, but the bride, meantime,--do you think she sees it as he does? But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,
IV. Claude to Eustace.
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration, Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in; But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden, Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever, Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,-- Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom. Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine, Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaus Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia, Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining, Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city, Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter. Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces, Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions, Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not, Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow, Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to, Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination! Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
V. Mary Trevellyn to Miss Roper,--from Florence.
Dearest Miss Roper,--Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, and You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing! We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles. Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over; Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city. Do you see Mr. Claude?--I thought he might do something for you. I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful. What is he doing? I wonder;--still studying Vatican marbles? Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
VI. Claude to Eustace.
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition? Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer, And, pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended, Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one; And, pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect, Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven. Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion! Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only! Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion, Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge! But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance, Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession? But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service? But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract? But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?-- Ah, but the bride, meantime,--do you think she sees it as he does? But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,