France, it is foully done! and you, my stupid old England,-- You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, you Could not, of course, interfere,--you, now, when a nation has chosen-- Pardon this folly! _The Times_ will, of course, have announced the occasion, Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in error When it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee, You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia.
"Dulce" it is, and _"decorum"_ no doubt, for the country to fall,--to Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yet Still, individual culture is also something, and no man Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on, Or would be justified, even, in taking away from the world that Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here; Else why sent him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely. On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certain Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in general Care for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation; Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this most plain and decisive: These, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall.
So we cling to the rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster, Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe our Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purpose Nature intended,--a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not. Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but, On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I shan't.
Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly, Hardly think so; and yet--He is come, they say, to Palo, He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma, She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,--the Daughter of Tiber She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee!
Will they fight? I believe it. Alas, 'tis ephemeral folly, Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures, Statues, and antique gems,--indeed: and yet indeed too, Yet methought, in broad day did I dream,--tell it not in St. James's, Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!--yet did I, waking, Dream of a cadence that sings, _Si tombent nos jeunes héros, la Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se battre;_ Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental, Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me.