es, O joyous throng,
All this scene is new;
Like a burst of seraphs' song,
Comes its matchless view;
You have traversed land and sea
For this wondrous sight,
Which the gods vouchsafe to me
Every day and night!

One long, serial pageant this
Of supreme content!
Every face suffused with bliss,
Every eye intent;
Griefs and troubles slip away
On this charming shore,
And throughout a transient stay
Will return no more.

Yet beware! Gardens fair,
Lake, and snow-capped crest
For a while may banish care
From the saddest breast;
But it quickly, even here,
Finds the heart again,
With the old-time sigh and tear,
And the well-known pain.

Careless crew, I envy you!
You will grieve to go,
But, believe me, if you knew,
You would choose it so;
Leave the lake while still you laugh;
Be content to pass;
Though its wine be sweet to quaff,
Do not drain your glass!

TRIPOLI

Hear the singing on the boats,
As they halt beside the pier!
Ah, those fresh Italian throats,
How they cheer!
Yet the words they sing so loud
Bring depression to my heart,
As I watch the youthful crowd
Thus depart.

"We are going o'er the sea!
Loyal sons of Italy,
We are bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!"

See that lad of twenty years,--
Who is stretching out his hand
Toward his mother there in tears
On the strand!
Should he perish in the strife
Under Afric's burning sky,
There were nothing left in life--
She must die.

Yet he's going o'er the sea!
At the call of Italy,
He is bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

Now the plank is pulled to land,
And the last farewell is o'er,
As the steamer, at command,
Leaves the shore;
There are shouts and ringing cheers,
For the boys are brave and strong,
Yet one feels that there are tears
In their song:

"We are going o'er the sea!
Loyal sons of Italy,
We are bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!"

Ah, that mother who is left!
She is weeping now alone,
Like a Niobe bereft
Of her own;
And at length I dare to speak
To the woman seated there,
With the tears upon her cheek,
In despair.

He has gone across the sea!
Who so dutiful as he?
He is bound for Tripoli,
Tripoli!

"Nay, good mother, do not weep!
Since the summons comes from Rome,
Can we really wish to keep
Sons at home?"
"And why not?" she made reply;
"We have no invading foe;
I would send my son to die,
Were it so."

Bu