_Sp._ Certainly. Only if it’s so, Let us leave Italy, and go Post haste, to attend—you’re ripe and rank for’t— The great peace-meeting up at Frankfort. Joy to the Croat! Take our lives, Sweet friends, and please respect our wives; Joy to the Croat! Some fine day, He’ll see the error of his way, No doubt, and will repent and pray. At any rate he’ll open his eyes, If not before, at the Last Assize. Not, if I rightly understood you, That even then you’d punish, would you? Nay, let the hapless soul go free— Mere murder, crime, or robbery, In whate’er station, age, or sex, Your sacred spirit scarce can vex: _De minimis non curat lex_. To the Peace Congress! ring the bell! Horses to Frankfort and to ——! _Di._ I am not quite in union with myself On this strange matter. I must needs confess Instinct turns instinct out, and thought Wheels round on thought. To bleed for others’ wrongs In vindication of a cause, to draw The sword of the Lord and Gideon—oh, that seems The flower and top of life! But fight because Some poor misconstruing trifler haps to say I lie, when I do not lie, Why should I? Call you this a cause? I can’t. Oh, he is wrong, no doubt; he misbehaves— But is it worth so much as speaking loud? And things so merely personal to myself Of all earth’s things do least affect myself. _Sp._ Sweet eloquence! at next May Meeting How it would tell in the repeating! I recognise, and kiss the rod— The methodistic ‘voice of God;’ I catch contrite that angel whine, That snuffle human, yet divine. _Di._ It may be I am somewhat of a poltroon; I never fought at school; whether it be Some native poorness in my spirit’s blood, Or that the holy doctrine of our faith In too exclusive fervency possessed My heart with feelings, with ideas my brain. _Sp._ Yes; you would argue that it goes Against the Bible, I suppose; But our revered religion—yes, Our common faith—seems, I confess, On these points to propose to address The people more than you or me— At best the vulgar bourgeoisie. The sacred writers don’t keep count, But still the Sermon on the Mount Must have been spoken, by what’s stated, To hearers by the thousands rated. I cuff some fellow; mild and meek He should turn round the other cheek. For him it may be right and good; We are not all of gentle blood Really, or as such understood. _Di._ There are two kindreds upon earth, I know— The oppressors and the oppressed. But as for me, If I must choose to inflict wrong, or accept, May my last end, and life too, be with these. Yes; whatsoe’er the reason, want of blood, Lymphatic humours, or my childhood’s faith, So is the thing, and be it well or ill, I have no choice. I am a man of peace, And the old Adam of the gentleman Dares seldom in my bosom stir against The mild plebeian Christian seated there.