The tents are raised; the waggon-vans

Stand ready for the long day's inarch.

At given sign the swarming crowds

Begin to make their slow descent

Through steep defiles precipitous.

In hand tilt-carts the asses draw

Their close-packed loads of children gay;

And mingling groups of old and young

In orderly disorder move.

Loud cries, and shouts, and gipsy songs;

The bear's low growl, and frequent creak

Of his impatient, irksome chain;

The particoloured, tattered robes;

Shoeless men half-clad and children;

The angry bark and howl of dogs;

The noisy bagpipe's piercing notes;

The grating harsh of turning wheels.

A picture wild and dissonant,

But all alert and full of soul;

Unlike our world's benumbing ease,

Unlike the barren life of town,

A life as dull as chant of slaves.

III.

With weary glance the youth looks back

Upon the now unpeopled plain;

Nor can he yet the secret cause

Of grief that fills his heart discern.

Beside him lies the black-eyed maid;

Lord of himself, lives as he will;

And o'er him shines the glowing sun

In his rounded midday beauty.

What, then, torments his youthful soul?

What care disturbs his restless heart?

The bird of air is free and knows