The gypsies, whom we met below, They too have long roamed to and fro; They ramble, leaving, where they pass, Their fragments on the cumbered grass. And often to some kindly place Chance guides the migratory race, Where, though long wanderings intervene, They recognize a former scene. The dingy tents are pitched; the fires Give to the wind their wavering spires; In dark knots crouch round the wild flame Their children, as when first they came; They see their shackled beasts again Move, browsing, up the gray-walled lane. Signs are not wanting, which might raise The ghost in them of former days,-- Signs are not wanting, if they would; Suggestions to disquietude. For them, for all, time’s busy touch, While it mends little, troubles much. Their joints grow stiffer--but the year Runs his old round of dubious cheer; Chilly they grow--yet winds in March, Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch; They must live still--and yet, God knows, Crowded and keen the country grows; It seems as if, in their decay, The law grew stronger every day. So might they reason, so compare, Fausta, times past with times that are; But no! they rubbed through yesterday In their hereditary way, And they will rub through, if they can, To-morrow on the self-same plan, Till death arrive to supersede, For them, vicissitude and need. The poet, to whose mighty heart Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart, Subdues that energy to scan Not his own course, but that of man. Though he move mountains, though his day Be passed on the proud heights of sway, Though he hath loosed a thousand chains, Though he hath borne immortal pains, Action and suffering though he know,-- He hath not lived, if he lives so. He sees, in some great-historied land, A ruler of the people stand, Sees his strong thought in fiery flood Roll through the heaving multitude, Exults--yet for no moment’s space Envies the all-regarded place. Beautiful eyes meet his, and he Bears to admire uncravingly; They pass: he, mingled with the crowd, Is in their far-off triumphs proud.