And almost every one when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like Him. But _eccoci_! with our _barchetta_, Here at the Sant’ Elisabetta. _Di._ Vineyards and maize, that’s pleasant for sore eyes. _Sp._ And on the island’s other side, The place where Murray’s faithful Guide Informs us Byron used to ride. _Di._ The trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho! The sea, at last the sea—the real broad sea— Beautiful! and a glorious breeze upon it. _Sp._ Look back; one catches at this station Lagoon and sea in combination. _Di._ On her still lake the city sits, Where bark and boat around her flits, Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking, Of Adriatic billows breaking. I do; I see and hear them. Come! to the sea! Oh, a grand surge! we’ll bathe; quick, quick!—undress! Quick, quick!—in, in! We’ll take the crested billows by their backs And shake them. Quick! in, in! And I will taste again the old joy I gloried in so when a boy; Aha! come, come—great waters, roll! Accept me, take me, body and soul! That’s done me good. It grieves me though, I never came here long ago. _Sp._ Pleasant, perhaps; however, no offence, Animal spirits are not common sense; They’re good enough as an assistance, But in themselves a poor existence. But you, with this one bathe, no doubt, Have solved all questions out and out. PART II. SCENE I.—_The interior Arcade of the Doge’s Palace._ _Sp._ Thunder and rain! O dear, O dear! But see, a noble shelter here, This grand arcade where our Venetian Has formed of Gothic and of Grecian A combination strange, but striking, And singularly to my liking! Let moderns reap where ancients sowed, I at least make it my abode. And now let’s hear your famous Ode: ‘Through the great sinful’—how did it go on? For principles of Art and so on I care perhaps about three curses, But hold myself a judge of verses. _Di._ ‘My brain was lightened when my tongue had said, “Christ is not risen.”’ * * * * * _Sp._ Well, now it’s anything but clear What is the tone that’s taken here: What is your logic? what’s your theology? Is it, or is it not, neology? That’s a great fault; you’re this and that, And here and there, and nothing flat; Yet writing’s golden word what is it, But the three syllables ‘explicit’? Say, if you cannot help it, less, But what you do put, put express. I fear that rule won’t meet your feeling: You think half showing, half concealing, Is God’s own method of revealing. _Di._ To please my own poor mind! to find repose; To physic the sick soul; to furnish vent To diseased humours in the moral frame! _Sp._ A sort of seton, I suppose, A moral bleeding at the nose: H’m;—and the tone too after all, Something of the ironical? Sarcastic, say; or were it fitter To style it the religious bitter?