The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  I would that you were all to me,

  You that are just so much, no more.

  Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!

  Where does the fault lie? What the core

  O’ the wound, since wound must be?

  I would I could adopt your will,

  See with your eyes, and set my heart

  Beating by yours, and drink my fill

  At your soul’s springs, – your part my part

  In life, for good and ill.

  No. I yearn upward, touch you close,

  Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,

  Catch your soul’s warmth, – I pluck the rose

  And love it more than tongue can speak –

  Then the good minute goes.

  Already how am I so far

  Out of that minute? Must I go

  Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,

  Onward, whenever light winds blow,

  Fixed by no friendly star?

  Just when I seemed about to learn!

  Where is the thread now? Off again!

  The old trick! Only I discern –

  Infinite passion, and the pain

  Of finite hearts that yearn.

  COVENTRY PATMORE from Victories of Love, Book 1, 2 1856

  He that but once too nearly hears

  The music of forefended spheres,

  Is thenceforth lonely, and for all

  His days like one who treads the Wall

  Of China, and, on this hand, sees

  Cities and their civilities,

  And, on the other, lions.

  1858ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH from Amours de Voyage (Canto II)

  [The French Siege of Rome, 1849]

  V Claude to Eustace

  Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual,

  Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo;

  Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather,

  Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray,

  And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles,

  Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter, – and Non c’ è latte,

  This is the answer he makes me, and this the sign of a battle.

  So I sit; and truly they seem to think any one else more

  Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero,

  Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,

  Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and

  Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee, – withdrawing

  Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket

  Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual,

  Much, and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine

  Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffè is empty,

  Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso

  Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.

  Twelve o’clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,

  Germans, Americans, French, – the Frenchmen, too, are protected, –

  So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;

  So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St Peter’s,

  Smoke, from the cannon, white, – but that is at intervals only, –

  Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;

  And we believe we discern some lines of men descending

  Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.

  Every ten minutes, however, – in this there is no misconception, –

  Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo’s dome, and

  After a space the report of a real big gun, – not the Frenchman’s? –

  That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.

  Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St Peter’s,

  Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;

  So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome. –

  All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,

  It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.

  Half past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,

  Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:

  So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.

  Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly,

  Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of

  National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows,

  English, American, Danish, – and, after offering to help an

  Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny,

  After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling

  Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,

  Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.

  But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices

  Talk, though you don’t believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;

  And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning. –

  This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle.

  ( … )

  VII Claude to Eustace

  So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!

  Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,

  And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.

  But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw

  Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.

  I was returning home from St Peter’s; Murray, as usual,

  Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St Angelo bridge; and

  Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when

  Gradually, thinking still of St Peter’s, I became conscious

  Of a sensation of movement opposing me, – tendency this way

  (Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is

  Coming and not yet come, – a sort of poise and retention);

  So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers

  Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.

  Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,

  Into which you remember the Ponte St Angelo enters,

  Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the

  Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is

  Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it?

  Ha! bare swords in the air, held up! There seem to be voices

  Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are

  Many, and bare in the air. In the air? They descend; they are smiting

  Hewing, chopping – At what? In the air once more upstretched! And

  Is it blood that’s on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then?

  Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?

  While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points of

  Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a

  Mercantile-seeming by-stander, ‘What is it?’ and he, looking always

  That way, makes me answer, ‘A Priest, who was trying to fly to

  The Neapolitan army,’ – and thus explains the proceeding.

  You didn’t see the dead man? No; – I began to be doubtful;

  I was in black myself, and didn’t know what mightn’t happen; –

  But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,

  Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust, – and

  Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, and

  Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a
body.

  You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter.

  Whom should I tell it to, else? – these girls? – the Heavens forbid it! –

  Quidnuncs at Monaldini’s? – idlers upon the Pincian?

  If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon when

  Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army

  First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,

  Thought I could fancy the look of the old ’Ninety-two. On that evening

  Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered.

  Some declare they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; others

  Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,

  Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:

  History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave it to thee to determine!

  But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength to

  Put it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful.

  Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, I

  Found no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,

  So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards

  Thence, by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,

  Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.

  VIII Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa

  Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!

  * * *

  George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, on

  Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:

  This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,

  Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in fighting,

  Which is, I don’t quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine;

  This he throws on the heads of the enemy’s men in a battle,

  Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them:

  Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.

  Mary allows she was wrong about Mr Claude being selfish;

  He was most useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April.

  Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence:

  We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses;

  All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini.

  P.S.

  Mary has seen thus far. – I am really so angry, Louisa, –

  Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending!

  I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,

  Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.

  IX Claude to Eustace

  It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in

  Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.

  Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;

  And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant crowd, that

  Flows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, entering

  Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria, and caffè,

  Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,

  Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.

  Ah, ’tis an excellent race, – and even in old degradation,

  Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,

  E’en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.

  Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption! – but clearly

  That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,

  Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer!

  Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini!

  X Claude to Eustace

  I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so.

  I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.

  I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you

  It is a pleasure, indeed, to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,

  Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can

  Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,

  Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,

  Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to

  Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain

  Conscious understandings that vex the minds of man-kind.

  No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tis

  Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded,

  Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.

  I am in love, you say; I do not think so exactly.

  1859EDWARD FITZGERALD from Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

  Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night

  Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:

  And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught

  The Sultán’s Turret in a Noose of Light.

  Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky

  I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,

  ‘Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup

  ‘Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.’

  And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before

  The Tavern shouted – ‘Open then the Door!

  ‘You know how little while we have to stay,

  ‘And, once departed, may return no more.’

  (… )

  ‘How sweet is mortal Sovranty!’ – think some:

  Others – ‘How blest the Paradise to come!’

  Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;

  Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

  Look to the Rose that blows about us – ‘Lo,

  ‘Laughing,’ she says, ‘into the World I blow:

  ‘At once the silken Tassel of my purse

  ‘Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.’

  The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon

  Turns Ashes – or it prospers; and anon,

  Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face

  Lighting a little Hour or two – is gone.

  And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,

  And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,

  Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d

  As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

  Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai

  Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,

  How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp

  Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

  They say the Lion and the Lizard keep

  The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep: