Dipsychus - Scene 5
Spirit
What now? the Lido shall it be?
That none may say we didn't see
The ground which Byron used to ride on,
And do I don't know what beside on.
Ho, barca! here! and this light gale
Will let us run it with a sail.
Dipsychus
I dreamt a dream; till morning light
A bell rang in my head all night,
Tinkling and tinkling first, and then
Tolling; and tinkling; tolling again.
So brisk and gay, and then so slow!
O joy, and terror! mirth, and woe!
Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting—
Dong, there is no God; dong,
There is no God; dong, dong!
Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting;
Come dance and play, and merrily sing—
Ting, ting a ding; ting, ting a ding!
O pretty girl who trippest along,
Come to my bed—it isn't wrong.
Uncork the bottle, sing the song!
Ting, ting a ding: dong, dong.
Wine has dregs; the song an end;
A silly girl is a poor friend
And age and weakness who shall mend?
Dong, there is no God; Dong!
Ting, ting a ding! Come dance and sing!
Staid Englishmen, who toil and slave
From your first breeching to your grave,
And seldom spend and always save,
And do your duty all your life
By your young family and wife;
Come, be't not said you ne'er had known
What earth can furnish you alone.
The Italian, Frenchman, German even,
Have given up all thoughts of heaven;
And you still linger—oh, you fool!—
Because of what you learnt at school.
You should have gone at least to college,
And got a little ampler knowledge.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:
Do, if you like, as now you do;
If work's a cheat, so's pleasure too;
And nothing's new and nothing's true;
Dong, there is no God; dong!
O Rosalie, my precious maid,
I think thou thinkest love is true;
And on thy fragrant bosom laid
I almost could believe it too.
O in our nook, unknown, unseen,
We'll hold our fancy like a screen,
Us and the dreadful fact between.
And it shall yet be long, aye, long,
The quiet notes of our low song
Shall keep us from that sad dong, dong.
Hark, hark, hark! O voice of fear!
It reaches us here, even here!
Dong, there is no God; dong!
Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,
To battle, to battle—haste, haste—
To battle, to battle—aha, aha!
On, on, to the conqueror's feast.
From east and west, and south and north,
Ye men of valour and of worth,
Ye mighty men of arms, come forth,
And work your will, for that is just;
And in your impulse put your trust,
Beneath your feet the fools are dust.
Alas, alas! O grief and wrong,
The good are weak, the wicked strong;
And O my God, how long, how long?
Dong, there is no God; dong!
Ring, ting; to bow before the strong,
There is a rapture too in this;
Speak, outraged maiden, in thy wrong
Did terror bring no secret bliss?
Were boys' shy lips worth half a song
Compared to the hot soldier's kiss?
Work for thy master, work, thou slave
He is not merciful, but brave.
Be't joy to serve, who free and proud
Scorns thee and all the ignoble crowd;
Take that, 'tis all thou art allowed,
Except the snaky hope that they
May some time serve, who rule to-day,
When, by hell-demons, shan't they pay?
O wickedness, O shame and grief,
And heavy load, and no relief!
O God, O God! and which is worst,
To be the curser or the curst,
The victim or the murderer? Dong
Dong, there is no God; dong!
Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,
Away, and hush that preaching—fagh!
Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,
Who offer noblest hearts, to heal
The tenderest hurts honour can feel,
Paid magistrates and the Police!
O piddling merchant justice, go,
Exacter rules than yours we know;
Resentment's rule, and that high law
Of whoso best the sword can draw.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong.
Go on, my friends, as now you do;
Lawyers are villains, soldiers too;
And nothing's new and nothing's true.
Dong, there is no God; dong!
O Rosalie, my lovely maid,
I think thou thinkest love is true;
And on thy faithful bosom laid
I almost could believe it too.
The villainies, the wrongs, the alarms
Forget we in each other's arms
No justice here, no God above;
But where we are, is there not love?
What? what? thou also go'st? For how
Should dead truth live in lover's vow?
What, thou? thou also lost? Dong
Dong, there is no God; dong!
I had a dream, from eve to light
A bell went sounding all the night.
Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain:
I tried to stop it, but in vain.
It ran right on, and never broke;
Only when day began to stream
Through the white curtains to my bed,
And like an angel at my head
Light stood and touched me—I awoke,
And looked, and said, ‘It is a dream.’
Spirit
Ah! not so bad. You've read, I see,
Your Béranger, and thought of me.
But really you owe some apology
For harping thus upon theology.
I'm not a judge, I own; in short,
Religion may not be my forte.
The Church of England I belong to,
But think Dissenters not far wrong too;
They're vulgar dogs; but for his creed
I hold that no man will be d——d.
My Establishment I much respect,
Her ordinances don't neglect;
Attend at Church on Sunday once,
And in the Prayer-book am no dunce;
Baptise my babies; nay, my wife
Would be churched too once in her life.
She's taken, I regret to state,
Rather a Puseyite turn of late.
To set the thing quite right, I went
At Easter to the Sacrament.
'Tis proper once a year or so
To do the civil thing and show—
But come and listen in your turn
And you shall hear and mark and learn.
‘There is no God,’ the wicked saith,
‘And truly it's a blessing,
For what he might have done with us
It's better only guessing.’
‘There is no God,’ a youngster thinks,
‘Or really, if there may be,
He surely didn't mean a man
Always to be a baby.’
‘There is no God, or if there is,’
The tradesman thinks, ‘'twere funny
If he should take it ill in me
To make a little money.’
‘Whether there be,’ the rich man says,
‘It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual.’
Some others, also, to themselves
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;
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.
Dipsychus
Vineyards and maize, that's pleasant for sore eyes.
Spirit
And on the island's other side,
The place where Murray's faithful Guide
Informs us Byron used to ride.
Dipsychus
These trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho!
The sea, at last the sea—the real broad sea—
Beautiful! and a glorious breeze upon it.
Spirit
Look back; one catches at this station
Lagoon and sea in combination.
Dipsychus
On her still lake the city sits,
Where bark and boat about her flits,
Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking,
Of Adriatic billows breaking.
I do; and see and hear them. Come! to the sea!
Spirit
The wind I think is the sirocco .
Yonder, I take it, is Malmocco.
Thank you! it never was my passion
To skip o'er sand-hills in that fashion.
Dipsychus
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.
Spirit
Well; but it's not so pleasant for the feet;
We should have brought some towels and a sheet.
Dipsychus
In, in! I go. Ye great winds blow,
And break, thou curly waves, upon my breast.
Spirit
Hm! I'm undressing. Doubtless all is well—
I only wish these thistles were at hell.
By heaven, I'll stop before that bad yet worse is,
And take care of our watches—and our purses.
Dipsychus
Aha! come, come—great waters, roll!
Accept me, take me, body and soul!—
Aha!
Spirit
Come, no more of that stuff,
I'm sure you've stayed in long enough.
Dipsychus
That's done me good. It grieves me though
I never came here long ago.
Spirit
Pleasant perhaps. However, no offence,
Animal spirits are not common sense.
You think perhaps I have outworn them—
Certainly I have learnt to scorn them;
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.
'Tis Easter Day, and on the Lido
Lo, Christ the Lord is risen indeed, O!
What now? the Lido shall it be?
That none may say we didn't see
The ground which Byron used to ride on,
And do I don't know what beside on.
Ho, barca! here! and this light gale
Will let us run it with a sail.
Dipsychus
I dreamt a dream; till morning light
A bell rang in my head all night,
Tinkling and tinkling first, and then
Tolling; and tinkling; tolling again.
So brisk and gay, and then so slow!
O joy, and terror! mirth, and woe!
Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting—
Dong, there is no God; dong,
There is no God; dong, dong!
Ting, ting, there is no God; ting, ting;
Come dance and play, and merrily sing—
Ting, ting a ding; ting, ting a ding!
O pretty girl who trippest along,
Come to my bed—it isn't wrong.
Uncork the bottle, sing the song!
Ting, ting a ding: dong, dong.
Wine has dregs; the song an end;
A silly girl is a poor friend
And age and weakness who shall mend?
Dong, there is no God; Dong!
Ting, ting a ding! Come dance and sing!
Staid Englishmen, who toil and slave
From your first breeching to your grave,
And seldom spend and always save,
And do your duty all your life
By your young family and wife;
Come, be't not said you ne'er had known
What earth can furnish you alone.
The Italian, Frenchman, German even,
Have given up all thoughts of heaven;
And you still linger—oh, you fool!—
Because of what you learnt at school.
You should have gone at least to college,
And got a little ampler knowledge.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong:
Do, if you like, as now you do;
If work's a cheat, so's pleasure too;
And nothing's new and nothing's true;
Dong, there is no God; dong!
O Rosalie, my precious maid,
I think thou thinkest love is true;
And on thy fragrant bosom laid
I almost could believe it too.
O in our nook, unknown, unseen,
We'll hold our fancy like a screen,
Us and the dreadful fact between.
And it shall yet be long, aye, long,
The quiet notes of our low song
Shall keep us from that sad dong, dong.
Hark, hark, hark! O voice of fear!
It reaches us here, even here!
Dong, there is no God; dong!
Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,
To battle, to battle—haste, haste—
To battle, to battle—aha, aha!
On, on, to the conqueror's feast.
From east and west, and south and north,
Ye men of valour and of worth,
Ye mighty men of arms, come forth,
And work your will, for that is just;
And in your impulse put your trust,
Beneath your feet the fools are dust.
Alas, alas! O grief and wrong,
The good are weak, the wicked strong;
And O my God, how long, how long?
Dong, there is no God; dong!
Ring, ting; to bow before the strong,
There is a rapture too in this;
Speak, outraged maiden, in thy wrong
Did terror bring no secret bliss?
Were boys' shy lips worth half a song
Compared to the hot soldier's kiss?
Work for thy master, work, thou slave
He is not merciful, but brave.
Be't joy to serve, who free and proud
Scorns thee and all the ignoble crowd;
Take that, 'tis all thou art allowed,
Except the snaky hope that they
May some time serve, who rule to-day,
When, by hell-demons, shan't they pay?
O wickedness, O shame and grief,
And heavy load, and no relief!
O God, O God! and which is worst,
To be the curser or the curst,
The victim or the murderer? Dong
Dong, there is no God; dong!
Ring ding, ring ding, tara, tara,
Away, and hush that preaching—fagh!
Ye vulgar dreamers about peace,
Who offer noblest hearts, to heal
The tenderest hurts honour can feel,
Paid magistrates and the Police!
O piddling merchant justice, go,
Exacter rules than yours we know;
Resentment's rule, and that high law
Of whoso best the sword can draw.
Ah well, and yet—dong, dong, dong.
Go on, my friends, as now you do;
Lawyers are villains, soldiers too;
And nothing's new and nothing's true.
Dong, there is no God; dong!
O Rosalie, my lovely maid,
I think thou thinkest love is true;
And on thy faithful bosom laid
I almost could believe it too.
The villainies, the wrongs, the alarms
Forget we in each other's arms
No justice here, no God above;
But where we are, is there not love?
What? what? thou also go'st? For how
Should dead truth live in lover's vow?
What, thou? thou also lost? Dong
Dong, there is no God; dong!
I had a dream, from eve to light
A bell went sounding all the night.
Gay mirth, black woe, thin joys, huge pain:
I tried to stop it, but in vain.
It ran right on, and never broke;
Only when day began to stream
Through the white curtains to my bed,
And like an angel at my head
Light stood and touched me—I awoke,
And looked, and said, ‘It is a dream.’
Spirit
Ah! not so bad. You've read, I see,
Your Béranger, and thought of me.
But really you owe some apology
For harping thus upon theology.
I'm not a judge, I own; in short,
Religion may not be my forte.
The Church of England I belong to,
But think Dissenters not far wrong too;
They're vulgar dogs; but for his creed
I hold that no man will be d——d.
My Establishment I much respect,
Her ordinances don't neglect;
Attend at Church on Sunday once,
And in the Prayer-book am no dunce;
Baptise my babies; nay, my wife
Would be churched too once in her life.
She's taken, I regret to state,
Rather a Puseyite turn of late.
To set the thing quite right, I went
At Easter to the Sacrament.
'Tis proper once a year or so
To do the civil thing and show—
But come and listen in your turn
And you shall hear and mark and learn.
‘There is no God,’ the wicked saith,
‘And truly it's a blessing,
For what he might have done with us
It's better only guessing.’
‘There is no God,’ a youngster thinks,
‘Or really, if there may be,
He surely didn't mean a man
Always to be a baby.’
‘There is no God, or if there is,’
The tradesman thinks, ‘'twere funny
If he should take it ill in me
To make a little money.’
‘Whether there be,’ the rich man says,
‘It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual.’
Some others, also, to themselves
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;
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.
Dipsychus
Vineyards and maize, that's pleasant for sore eyes.
Spirit
And on the island's other side,
The place where Murray's faithful Guide
Informs us Byron used to ride.
Dipsychus
These trellised vines! enchanting! Sandhills, ho!
The sea, at last the sea—the real broad sea—
Beautiful! and a glorious breeze upon it.
Spirit
Look back; one catches at this station
Lagoon and sea in combination.
Dipsychus
On her still lake the city sits,
Where bark and boat about her flits,
Nor dreams, her soft siesta taking,
Of Adriatic billows breaking.
I do; and see and hear them. Come! to the sea!
Spirit
The wind I think is the sirocco .
Yonder, I take it, is Malmocco.
Thank you! it never was my passion
To skip o'er sand-hills in that fashion.
Dipsychus
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.
Spirit
Well; but it's not so pleasant for the feet;
We should have brought some towels and a sheet.
Dipsychus
In, in! I go. Ye great winds blow,
And break, thou curly waves, upon my breast.
Spirit
Hm! I'm undressing. Doubtless all is well—
I only wish these thistles were at hell.
By heaven, I'll stop before that bad yet worse is,
And take care of our watches—and our purses.
Dipsychus
Aha! come, come—great waters, roll!
Accept me, take me, body and soul!—
Aha!
Spirit
Come, no more of that stuff,
I'm sure you've stayed in long enough.
Dipsychus
That's done me good. It grieves me though
I never came here long ago.
Spirit
Pleasant perhaps. However, no offence,
Animal spirits are not common sense.
You think perhaps I have outworn them—
Certainly I have learnt to scorn them;
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.
'Tis Easter Day, and on the Lido
Lo, Christ the Lord is risen indeed, O!
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