LAST night, within the stifling train,
Lit by the foggy lamp o’erhead,
Sick of the sad Last News, I read
Verse of that joyous child of Spain,
Who dwelt when Rome was waxing cold,
Within the Roman din and smoke.
And like my heart to me they spoke,
These accents of his heart of old:—
“_Brother_, _had we but time to live_,
_And fleet the careless hours together_,
_With all that leisure has to give_
_Of perfect life and peaceful weather_,
“_The Rich Man’s halls_, _the anxious faces_,
_The weary Forum_, _courts_, _and cases_
_Should know us not_; _but quiet nooks_,
_But summer shade by field and well_,
_But county rides_, _and talk of books_,
_At home_, _with these_, _we fain would dwell_!
“_Now neither lives_, _but day by day_
_Sees the suns wasting in the west_,
_And feels their flight_, _and doth delay_
_To lead the life he loveth best_.”
So from thy city prison broke,
Martial, thy wail for life misspent,
And so, through London’s noise and smoke
My heart replies to the lament.
For dear as Tagus with his gold,
And swifter Salo, were to thee,
So dear to me the woods that fold
The streams that circle Fernielea!