_Di._ The scene is different, and the place, the air Tastes of the nearer north; the people Not perfect southern lightness; wherefore, then, Should those old verses come into my mind I made last year at Naples? Oh, poor fool! Still resting on thyself—a thing ill-worked— A moment’s thought committed on the moment To unripe words and rugged verse:— ‘Through the great sinful streets of Naples as I past, With fiercer heat than flamed above my head My heart was hot within me; till at last My brain was lightened when my tongue had said— Christ is not risen!’ _Sp._ Christ is not risen? Oh, indeed, I didn’t know that was your creed. _Di._ So it went on, too lengthy to repeat— ‘Christ is not risen.’ _Sp._ 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. _Di._ 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? Oh, we unwise!’ _Sp._ H’m! and the tone, then, after all, Something of the ironical? Sarcastic, say; or were it fitter To style it the religious bitter? _Di._ 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. _Sp._ Nay, 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. _Di._ 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? _Sp._ Enjoy the minute, And the substantial blessings in it: Ices, _par exemple_; evening air, Company, and this handsome square; And all the sweets in perfect plenty Of the old _dolce far niente_. Music! Up, up; it isn’t fit With beggars here on steps to sit. Up, to the caffé! take a chair, And join the wiser idlers there. And see that fellow singing yonder; Singing, ye gods, and dancing too— Tooraloo, tooraloo, tooraloo, loo— Fiddledi diddledi, diddle di di; _Figaro sù, Figaro giù—_ _Figaro quà, Figaro là_! How he likes doing it—Ha, ha! _Di._ While these do what? Ah, heaven! too true, at Venice Christ is not risen either. SCENE II.—_The Public Garden._