poem about money, written in Venice, in the character of a vulgar rich man, two verses of which I quote:
As I sat at the café, I said to myself,
They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,
They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking,
But help it I cannot—I cannot help thinking
How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho,
How pleasant it is to have money.
I sit at my table en grand seigneur,
And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor;
Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good living,
But also the pleasure of now and then giving,
So pleasant, etc.
Sometimes his humour touches lightly and softly the comfortable, thoughtless life, as in these two verses on the gondola:—
Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah!
What else is like the gondola?
This level floor of liquid glass
Begins beneath us swift to pass.
It goes as though it went alone
By some impulsion of its own.
How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Were all things like the gondola!
With no more motion than should bear
A freshness to the languid air;
With no more effort than exprest
The need and naturalness of rest,
Which we beneath a grateful shade,
Should take on peaceful pillows laid.
How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola!
So live, nor need to call to mind
Our slaving brother here behind!
