Classic Poem

Dipsychus

The scene is different, and the place; the air
Tastes of the nearer North: the people too
Not perfect southern lightness. Wherefore then
Should those old verses come into my mind
I made last year at Naples? O poor fool,
Still nesting on thyself!

 ‘Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past,
 With fiercer heat than flamed above my head
 My heart was hot within; the fire burnt, and at last
 My brain was lightened when my tongue had said,
  Christ is not risen!’

Spirit

Christ is not risen? Oh indeed!
Wasn't aware that was your creed.

Dipsychus

So it goes on. Too lengthy to repeat—
 ‘Christ is not risen.’

Spirit

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.

Dipsychus

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?
 O we unwise!

Spirit

H'm! and the tone then after all
Something of the ironical?
Sarcastic, say; or were it fitter
To style it the religious bitter?

Dipsychus

 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.

Spirit

Nay—
T'was well enough once in a way;
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—

Dipsychus

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?

Spirit

Enjoy the minute,
And the substantial blessings in it;
Ices, par exemple ; evening air;
Company, and this handsome square;
Some pretty faces here and there;
Music! Up, up; it isn't fit
With beggars here on steps to sit.
Up—to the café! Take a chair
And join the wiser idlers there.
Aye! what a crowd! and what a noise!
With all these screaming half-breeched boys.
Partout dogs, boys, and women wander—
And see, a fellow singing yonder;
Singing, ye gods, and dancing too—
Tooraloo, tooraloo, tooraloo, loo;
Fiddle di, diddle di, diddle di da
Figaro sù, Figaro giù—
Figaro quà, Figaro là!
How he likes doing it! Ah, ha, ha!

Dipsychus

While these do what—ah heaven!

Spirit

 If you want to pray
I'll step aside a little way.
Eh? But I will not be far gone;
You may be wanting me anon.
Our lonely pious altitudes
Are followed quick by prettier moods.
Who knows not with what ease devotion
Slips into earthlier emotion?

Dipsychus

While these do what? Ah, heaven, too true, at Venice
Christ is not risen either!