a lone isle lies dead.
'Twas long denied: 'No, no,' said they,
'Soon shall he reappear!
O'er ocean comes he, and the foe
Shall find his master here.'
Ah, what a bitter pang I felt,
When forced to own 'twas true!"
"Poor granny! Heaven for this will look--
Will kindly look on you."

Translation of William Young.

THE OLD TRAMP

(LE VIEUX VAGABOND)

Here in this gutter let me die:
Weary and sick and old, I've done.
"He's drunk," will say the passers-by:
All right, I want no pity--none.
I see the heads that turn away,
While others glance and toss me sous:
"Off to your junket! go!" I say:
Old tramp,--to die I need no help from you.

Yes, of old age I'm dying now:
Of hunger people never die.
I hoped some almshouse might allow
A shelter when my end was nigh;
But all retreats are overflowed,
Such crowds are suffering and forlorn.
My nurse, alas! has been the road:
Old tramp,--here let me die where I was born.

When young, it used to be my prayer
To craftsmen, "Let me learn your trade."
"Clear out--we've got no work to spare;
Go beg," was all reply they made.
You rich, who bade me work, I've fed
With relish on the bones you threw;
Made of your straw an easy bed:
Old tramp,--I have no curse to vent on you.

Poor wretch, I had the choice to steal;
But no, I'd rather beg my bread.
At most I thieved a wayside meal
Of apples ripening overhead.
Yet twenty times have I been thrown
In prison--'twas the King's decree;
Robbed of the only thing I own:
Old tramp,--at least the sun belongs to me.

The poor man--is a country his?
What are to me your corn and wine,
Your glory and your industries,
Your orators? They are not mine.
And when a foreign foe waxed fat
Within your undefended walls,
I shed my tears, poor fool, at that:
Old tramp,--his hand was open to my calls.

Why, like the hateful bug you kill,
Did you not crush me when you could?

Or better, teach me ways and skill
To labor for the common good?

The ugly grub an ant may end,
If sheltered from the cold and fed.

You might have had me for