A New Pilgrimage, VI

Away from sorrow ! Yes, indeed, away !
Who said that care behind the horseman sits ¥
The train to Paris, as it flies to-day,
Whirls its bold rider clear of ague tits.
Who stops for sorrows ? Who for his lost wits,
His vanished gold, his loves of yesterday,
His vexed ambitions ? See, the landscape flits
Bright in his face, and fleeter far than they.
Away ! away ! Our mother Earth is wide ;
And our poor lives and loves of what avail ?
All life is here ; and here we sit astride
On her broad back, with Hope's white wings for sail,
In search of fortune and that glorious goal,
Paris, the golden city of our soul.