Part 24 (1/2)

To and fro We idly go, Bidding our oarsmen lightly row; Here and there Halting where The vision seems supremely fair; Happy to let our little boat In a flood of opaline splendor float.

Far away Seems to-day The clamorous world of work and play; Ours indeed A different creed From that of the modern G.o.d of Speed, Whose converts suffer such grievous waste In strenuous labor and feverish haste!

East or west, A tranquil nest, When curfew rings, is always best, A landscape fair, A volume rare, And a kindred heart, one's peace to share,-- What is there better from life to take In a sweet retreat on the Larian lake?

THE WANDERER

Wandering minstrel at my gate, s.h.i.+vering in the winter gloaming, How appalling seems your fate,-- Destined to be always roaming, Singing for a bit of bread And a shelter for your head!

Your sweet voice is all you own, Save the poor, thin clothes you're wearing, And you are not quite alone, For a dog your crust is sharing; Yet o'er many a weary mile You have brought ... a song and smile!

I, who have abundant land, Home with comforts beyond measure, Gardens, loggias, and a strand Where a boat awaits my pleasure, Wonder what would be your story, Were I tramp, and you signore!

Would you weary of control?

Long to slip your gilded tether, And with Leo once more stroll, Heedless of the wind and weather?

You could hardly do that all, Once ensconced behind my wall.

Every one must make a choice, Life is based on compensation; You have nothing but your voice, I have more, ... but more vexation!

Minstrel, you at least are free; Give your smile to slaves like me!

SECLUSION

Shut out the World, shut in the Home!

The sea is deeper than its foam; Retain the gem, reject the paste; Withdraw from Mammon's feverish haste, Its tumult and its senseless waste.

Within are love, and books, and flowers,-- Creators of life's happiest hours; Without are those whose baneful call, If once they pa.s.s within thy wall, May blight the beauty of it all.

Think not they come for love of thee!

They seek from ennui to be free, To ask some boon, or tell some tale Which, true or false, will rarely fail To leave behind a poisoned trail.

What else indeed can such as they Invent to pa.s.s their time away?

Their thoughts revolve round sport and dress, Their reading is the daily press, Their mental life a wilderness.

What though their dwellings rise near thine?

Propinquity is not a sign Of loyal hearts or kindred views; Thou surely hast a right to choose Whom thou wilt welcome, whom refuse.

Decline to let those mar thy joy, Whose manners wound, and words annoy; The vapid, heartless throng eschew; Admit alone,--alas, how few!-- The really kind, the really true.

Yet when did ever a recluse Escape the baffled crowd's abuse?

The social world will ne'er condone Thy preference to live alone Amid resources of thine own.