The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858. Various

        Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:

        So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase a

        Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honor.

        But, from the tumult escaping, 'tis pleasant, of drumming and

             shouting,

        Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,

        And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings

        Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o'er

        Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters.

          Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,

        No, you should not have used it. But, O great Heavens, I repel it!

        Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly

        Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonor,

        Yea, my own heart's own writing, my soul's own signature! Ah, no!

        I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.

        No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,

        This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.

        No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;

        Bind and engage myself deep;—and lo, on the following morning

        It was all e'en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.

        Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performance

        At the first step breaking down in its pitiful rôle of evasion,

        When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,

        Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—

        Stood unexpecting, unconscious. She spoke not of obligations,

        Knew not of debt,—ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.

        Hang this thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!

        Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man's chamber,

        Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber

             pursuing.

          What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of Men? Have compassion!

        Be favorable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge!

        Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the field, my brothers,

        Tranquilly, happily lie,—and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!

        Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio

        Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;

        Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,

        With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,

        Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—

        So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,

        Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,

        Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me.2

        Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,

        Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!

        Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair under Monte Gennaro,

        (Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wonder and gaze, of the shadows,

        Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,)

        Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,

        Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:—

        So not seeing I sung; so now,—nor seeing, nor hearing,

        Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,

        Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,

        Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,

        But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the

        Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,

        Which, by the grace of the Tiber, proclaim themselves Rome of the

             Romans,—

        But on Montorio's height, looking forth to the vapory mountains,

        Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,—

        But on Montorio's height, with these weary soldiers by me,

        Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.

        Dear Miss Roper,—It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, said

        Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.

        Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.

        It is so disagreeable, and so annoying, to think of!

        If it could only be known, though we never may meet him again, that

        It was all George's doing and we were entirely unconscious,

        It would extremely relieve—Your ever affectionate Mary.

        P.S. (1).

          Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.

        So you have seen him,—indeed,—and guessed,—how dreadfully clever!

        What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?

        Charming!—but wait for a moment, I have not read through the letter.

        P.S. (2).

          Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.

        If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.

        Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.

        It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled for.

        Do as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.

        Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.

        Only don't tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,

        That