Put not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot,
  Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a
  New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heaven
  Right on the Place de la Concorde,—­I, ne’ertheless, let me say it,
  Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates, shed
  One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman republic!

  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.

  II.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  “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.

  III.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  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!