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There as they wend, Derwent his arm,
Demure, and brotherly, and grave,
Slips into Rolfe's: “A bond we have;
We lock, we symbolize it, see;
Yes, you and I: but he, but he!”
And checked himself, as under warm
Emotion. Rolfe kept still. “Unlike,
Unlike! Don Hannibal through storm
Has passed; yet does his sunshine strike.
But Ungar, clouded man! No balm
He'll find in that unhappy vein;”
Pausing, awaiting Rolfe again.
Rolfe held his peace. “But grant indeed
His strictures just—how few will heed!
The hippopotamus is tough;
Well bucklered too behind. Enough:
Man has two sides: keep on the bright.”
“Two sides imply that one's not right;
So that won't do,”—“Wit, wit!”—“Nay, truth.”
“Sententious are ye, pithy—sooth!”
Yet quickened now that Rolfe began
To find a tongue, he sprightlier ran:
“As for his Jeremiad spells,
Shall these the large hope countermand?
The world's outlived the oracles,
And the people never will disband!
Stroll by my hedge-rows in the June,
The chirruping quite spoils his tune.”

“Ay, birds,” said Rolfe; nor more would own.
“But, look: to hold the censor-tone,
One need be qualified: is he?”
“He's wise.” “Too vehemently wise!
His factious memories tyrannize
And wrest the judgment.” “In degree,
Perchance.” “But come: shall we accord
Credentials to that homely sword
He wears? Would it had more of grace!
But 'tis in serviceable case.”
“Right! war's his business.” “Business, say you?”
Resenting the unhandsome word;
“Unsay it quickly, friend, I pray you!
Fine business driving men through fires
To Hades, at the bidding blind
Of Heaven knows whom! but, now I mind,
In this case 'tis the Turk that hires
A Christian for that end.”—“May be,”
Said Rolfe. “And pretty business too
Is war for one who did instill
So much concern for Lincoln Hugh
Ground up by Mammon in the mill
Or was it rhetoric?” “May be,”
Said Rolfe. “And let me hint, may be
You're curt to-day. But, yes, I see:
Your countryman he is. Well, well,
That's right—you're right; no more I'll dwell:
Your countryman; and, yes, at heart
Rather you sidled toward his part
Though playing well the foil, pardee!
Oh, now you stare: no need: a trick
To deal your dullish mood a prick.
But mind you, though, some things you said
By Jordan lounging in the shade
When our discourse so freely ran?
But whatsoe'er reserves be yours
Touching your native clime and clan,
And whatsoe'er his thought abjures;
Still, when he's criticised by one
Not of the tribe, not of the zone—
Chivalric still, though doggedly,
You stand up for a countryman:
I like your magnanimity;”
And silent pressed the enfolded arm
As he would so transmit a charm
Along the nerve, which might insure,
However cynic challenge ran,
Faith genial in at least one man
Fraternal in love's overture.