The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 07, May, 1858. Various

        Yes, it relieves me to write, though I do not send; and the chance

             that

        Takes may destroy my fragments. But as men pray, without asking

        Whether One really exist to hear or do anything for them,—

        Simply impelled by the need of the moment to turn to a Being

        In a conception of whom there is freedom from all limitation,—

        So in your image I turn to an ens rationis of friendship.

        Even to write in your name I know not to whom nor in what wise.

        There was a time, methought it was but lately departed,

        When, if a thing was denied me, I felt I was bound to attempt it;

        Choice alone should take, and choice alone should surrender.

        There was a time, indeed, when I had not retired thus early,

        Languidly thus, from pursuit of a purpose I once had adopted.

        But it is over, all that! I have slunk from the perilous field in

        Whose wild struggle of forces the prizes of life are contested.

        It is over, all that! I am a coward, and know it.

        Courage in me could be only factitious, unnatural, useless.

        Rome is fallen, I hear, the gallant Medici taken,

        Noble Manara slain, and Garibaldi has lost il Moro;—

        Rome is fallen; and fallen, or falling, heroical Venice.

        I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single small chit of a girl, sit

        Moping and mourning here,—for her, and myself much smaller.

          Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle,

        Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

        Are they upborne from the field on the slumberous pinions of angels

        Unto a far-off home, where the weary rest from their labor,

        And the deep wounds are healed, and the bitter and burning moisture

        Wiped from the generous eyes? or do they linger, unhappy,

        Pining, and haunting the grave of their by-gone hope and endeavor?

          All declamation, alas! though I talk, I care not for Rome, nor

        Italy; feebly and faintly, and but with the lips, can lament the

        Wreck of the Lombard youth and the victory of the oppressor.

        Whither depart the brave?—God knows; I certainly do not.

        He has not come as yet; and now I must not expect it.

        You have written, you say, to friends at Florence, to see him,

        If he perhaps should return;—but that is surely unlikely.

        Has he not written to you?—he did not know your direction.

        Oh, how strange never once to have told him where you were going!

        Yet if he only wrote to Florence, that would have reached you.

        If what you say he said was true, why has he not done so?

        Is he gone back to Rome, do you think, to his Vatican marbles?—

        O my dear Miss Roper, forgive me! do not be angry!—

        You have written to Florence;—your friends would certainly find him.

        Might you not write to him?—but yet it is so little likely!

        I shall expect nothing more.—Ever yours, your affectionate Mary.

        I cannot stay at Florence, not even to wait for a letter.

        Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had cherished

        (Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Florence the first

             time)

        Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than ever,

        Chicken-hearted, past thought. The caffes and waiters distress

             me.

        All is unkind, and, alas, I am ready for any one's kindness.

        Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection,

        If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all kindness,

        It is the need of it,—it is this sad self-defeating dependence.

        Why is this, Eustace? Myself, were I stronger, I think I could tell

             you.

        But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of depression,

        Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose.

        All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to do something.

        Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all locks,

        Is not I will, but I must. I must,—I must,—and I do

             it.

        At the last moment I have your letter, for which I was waiting.

        I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries.

        Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me.

        Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not be certain;

        All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to be

             changed.

        It is a curious history, this; and yet I foresaw it;

        I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are against us;

        For it is certain enough that I met with the people you mention;

        They were at Florence the day I returned there, and spoke to me even;

        Staid a week, saw me often; departed, and whither I know not.

        Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence, partly.

        What is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered.

        Ah, no, that isn't it. But yet I retain my conclusion:

        I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances.

        Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering.