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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348521" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Amours de Voyage, Canto II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages, <br>Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide? <br>Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not, <br>Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide? <br>Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single, <br>Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine, <br>E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin, <br>E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not? <br>Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine, <br>Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare? <br>Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger, <br>Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What do the people say, and what does the government do?--you <br>Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; and <br>I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it. <br>I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,--I who sincerely <br>Put not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot, <br>Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a <br>New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heaven <br>Right on the Place de la Concorde,--I, nevertheless, let me say it, <br>Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates shed <br>One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic; <br>What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the Bourbon, <br>Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion? <br>France, it is foully done! and you, poor foolish England,-- <br>You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, you <br>Could not, of course, interfere,--you, now, when a nation has chosen---- <br>Pardon this folly! The Times will, of course, have announced the occasion, <br>Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in error <br>When it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee, <br>You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">II. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to fall,--to <br>Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yet <br>Still, individual culture is also something, and no man <br>Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on, <br>Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world that <br>Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here; <br>Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely; <br>On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certain <br>Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in general <br>Care for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation; <br>Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are decisive; <br>Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall. <br>So we cling to our rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster, <br>Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe our <br>Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purpose <br>Nature intended,--a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not. <br>Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but, <br>On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I sha'n't. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">III. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly, <br>Hardly think so; and yet----He is come, they say, to Palo, <br>He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa <br>He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma, <br>She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,--The Daughter of Tiber, <br>She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee! <br>Will they fight? I believe it. Alas! 'tis ephemeral folly, <br>Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures, <br>Statues, and antique gems!--Indeed: and yet indeed too, <br>Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream,--tell it not in St. James's, <br>Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!--yet did I, waking, <br>Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes héros, la <br>Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se battre; <br>Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental, <br>Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldier <br>Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny <br>(Where the family English are all to assemble for safety), <br>Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female? <br>Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little, <br>All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit. <br>Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn't die for good manners, <br>Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention. <br>No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there; <br>Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger, <br>Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy's freedom, <br>Sooner far by the side of the d----d and dirty plebeians. <br>Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady---- <br>Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation. <br>Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection, <br>Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina, <br>And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, and <br>Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended. <br>Oh, and of course, you will say, 'When the time comes, you will be ready.' <br>Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so? <br>What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel? <br>Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct? <br>Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception? <br>Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight, <br>For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action? <br>Must we, walking our earth, discerning a little, and hoping <br>Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,-- <br>Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present, <br>Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour, <br>To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim? <br>And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining, <br>Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">V. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual, <br>Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo; <br>Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather, <br>Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray, <br>And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles; <br>Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,--and Non c'è latte, <br>This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle. <br>So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else more <br>Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero, <br>Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons, <br>Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and <br>Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,--withdrawing <br>Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket <br>Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual, <br>Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine <br>Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffe is empty, <br>Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso <br>Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti. <br>Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English, <br>Germans, Americans, French,--the Frenchmen, too, are protected,-- <br>So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower; <br>So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's, <br>Smoke, from the cannon, white,--but that is at intervals only,-- <br>Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri; <br>And we believe we discern some lines of men descending <br>Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming. <br>Every ten minutes, however,--in this there is no misconception,-- <br>Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, and <br>After a space the report of a real big gun,--not the Frenchman's!-- <br>That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture. <br>Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's, <br>Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us; <br>So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.-- <br>All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside, <br>It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses. <br>Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent, <br>Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing: <br>So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very. <br>Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly, <br>Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of <br>National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows, <br>English, American, Danish,--and, after offering to help an <br>Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny, <br>After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling <br>Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters, <br>Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter. <br>But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices <br>Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken; <br>And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.-- <br>This is all that I saw, and all that I know of the battle. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Victory! Victory!--Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion, <br>Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together; <br>Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and so forth. <br>Victory! Victory! Victory!--Ah, but it is, believe me, <br>Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr <br>Than to indite any paean of any victory. Death may <br>Sometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion. <br>While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over, <br>Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven, <br>Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the altar, <br>Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour. <br>So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that swelled with <br>Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises, <br>Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col- <br>Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papers <br>Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, but <br>I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others! <br>Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain, <br>And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it. <br>But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw <br>Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something. <br>I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as usual, <br>Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; and <br>Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when <br>Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became conscious <br>Of a sensation of movement opposing me,--tendency this way <br>(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is <br>Coming and not yet come,--a sort of noise and retention); <br>So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers <br>Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner. <br>Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza, <br>Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters, <br>Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the <br>Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is <br>Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it? <br>Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voices <br>Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are <br>Many, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting, <br>Hewing, chopping--At what? In the air once more upstretched? And-- <br>Is it blood that's on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then? <br>Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation? <br>While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points of <br>Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a <br>Mercantile-seeming bystander, 'What is it?' and he, looking always <br>That way, makes me answer, 'A Priest, who was trying to fly to <br>The Neapolitan army,'--and thus explains the proceeding. <br>You didn't see the dead man? No;--I began to be doubtful; <br>I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't happen,-- <br>But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub, <br>Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,--and <br>Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, and <br>Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body. <br>You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter. <br>Whom should I tell it to else?--these girls?--the Heavens forbid it!-- <br>Quidnuncs at Monaldini's--Idlers upon the Pincian? <br>If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon when <br>Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army <br>First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers, <br>Thought I could fancy the look of that old 'Ninety-two. On that evening <br>Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered <br>Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; others <br>Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated, <br>Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna: <br>History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine! <br>But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength to <br>Put it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful. <br>Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, I <br>Found no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges, <br>So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards <br>Thence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum, <br>Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!-- <br>* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * <br>George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, on <br>Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him: <br>This is a man, you know, who came from America with him, <br>Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in fighting, <br>Which is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine; <br>This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a battle, <br>Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them: <br>Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian. <br>Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claude being selfish; <br>He was most useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April. <br>Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence: <br>We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses; <br>All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini </div><div style="margin:10px 0">P.S. <br>Mary has seen thus far.--I am really so angry, Louisa,-- <br>Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending? <br>I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment, <br>Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in <br>Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people. <br>Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil; <br>And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant crowd, that <br>Flows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, entering <br>Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria, and caffè, <br>Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava, <br>Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion. <br>Ah, 'tis an excellent race,--and even in old degradation, <br>Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating, <br>E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people. <br>Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!--but clearly <br>That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals, <br>Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer! <br>Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">X. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so. <br>I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so. <br>I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you <br>It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift, <br>Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can <br>Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking, <br>Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment, <br>Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to <br>Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain <br>Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind. <br>No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; 'tis <br>Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded, <br>Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning. <br>I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction: <br>One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy, <br>And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you. <br>I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter. <br>I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing, <br>There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished. <br>I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and action <br>Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious, <br>Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process; <br>We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted! <br>Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present! <br>Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing! <br>Drive me not out yet, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden, <br>Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration! <br>Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ, <br>Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort, <br>Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it is so. <br>She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me. <br>Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways? <br>Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly? <br>'Tis not her fault; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them: <br>'Tis not her fault; 'tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me. <br>Hopeless it seems,--yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it: <br>She goes--therefore I go; she moves,--I move, not to lose her. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV. Claude to Eustace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing; <br>'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you, <br>Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero; <br>She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,-- <br>Knowledge, O ye Gods!--when did they appreciate knowledge? <br>Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it. <br>Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me! <br>(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?) <br>But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant; <br>Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her; <br>Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence, <br>Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me. <br>Not that I care very much!--any way I escape from the boy's own <br>Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy. <br>Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, and <br>Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit, <br>Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it; <br>It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures, <br>Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly; <br>We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle, <br>Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general, <br>Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us, <br>Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us. <br>Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it. <br>All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is, <br>Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance. <br>You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">. . . . . . To-morrow we're starting for Florence, <br>Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors; <br>Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we by vettura <br>Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn. <br>Then---- Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking! <br>You will imagine my feelings,--the blending of hope and of sorrow. <br>How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters? <br>Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust me <br>Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">P.S. by Mary Trevellyn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">. . . . . . . 'Do I like Mr. Claude any better?' <br>I am to tell you,--and, 'Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?' <br>This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him. <br>All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me. <br>There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive. <br>So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriage <br>Surely will do in one year for the family you would establish <br>Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">P.S. by Georgina Trevellyn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better; <br>He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too shilly-shally,-- <br>So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matte is going on fairly. <br>I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something. <br>Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">--------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is it Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer, <br>E'en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old, <br>Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden, <br>Vainly 'mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget? <br>Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,-- <br>He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go! <br>Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee! <br>She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Arthur+Hugh+Clough">Arthur Hugh Clough</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348521" data-title="Amours de Voyage, Canto II de Arthur Hugh Clough" data-description="Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages, 
Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide? 
Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not, 
Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, a..."></div>
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