Various - The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 05, March, 1858 стр 12.

  "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.

  Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly,
  Hardly think so; and yetHe 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!

  Will they fight? I believe it. Alas, 'tis ephemeral folly,
  Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures,
  Statues, and antique gems,indeed: and yet indeed too,
  Yet methought, in broad day did I dream,tell it not in St. James's,
  Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!yet did I, waking,
  Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes héros, la
  Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se battre;
  Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental,
  Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me.

  Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldier
  Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny,
  (Where the family English are all to assemble for safety,)
  Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female?
  Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little,
  All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit.
  Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn't die for good manners,
  Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of a graceful attention.
  No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there;
  Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger,
  Sooner far should it be for this vapor of Italy's freedom,
  Sooner far by the side of the damned and dirty plebeians.

  Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady
  Somehow, Eustace, alas, I have not felt the vocation.
  Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection,
  Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina,
  And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, and
  Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended.

  Oh, and of course you will say, "When the time comes, you will be ready."
  Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so?
  What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel?
  Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct?
  Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception?
  Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight,
  For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action?
  Must we, walking o'er earth, discerning a little, and hoping
  Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,
  Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present,
  Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbor,
  To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim?
  And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble repining,
  Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent?

  Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning, as usual,
  Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo;
  Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather,
  Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray,
  And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles,
  Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,and Non c' è latte,
  This is the answer he makes me, and this the sign of a battle.
  So I sit; and truly they seem to think any one else more
  Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero,
  Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,
  Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and
  Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,withdrawing
  Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket
  Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual,
  Much, and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine
  Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffè is empty,
  Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso
  Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.

  Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,
  Germans, Americans, French,the Frenchmen, too, are protected.
  So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;
  So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter's,
  Smoke, from the cannon, white,but that is at intervals only,
  Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;
  And we believe we discern some lines of men descending
  Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.
  Every ten minutes, however,in this there is no misconception,
  Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's dome, and
  After a space the report of a real big gun,not the Frenchman's?
  That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.

  Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter's,
  Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;
  So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.
  All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,
  It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.

  Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,
  Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:
  So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.
  Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossipping idly,
  Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of
  National Guards patrolling and flags hanging out at the windows,
  English, American, Danish,and, after offering to help an
  Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny,
  After endeavoring idly to minister balm to the trembling
  Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,
  Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.
  But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices
  Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;
  And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.
  This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle.