Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/355

322 Once more adrift, on, on to Rome, Where burned the Muse's altar-fires! Ah me! it was only the home Of a sick old man and some friars. When he asked for Horace's verse, Doggerel hymns were sung through the nose, He felt he'd fallen from bad to worse, And tears in his eyes unbidden rose.

Poor Pleasure! How get back to France? That was the question for him now, Without papers or money, small his chance! A loan, but who would a loan allow? Heaven-helpt, he reached the country dear, And there at last saw Liberty; What has a pet spoilt-child to fear, Who falls with tears at his mother's knee? A.