GUI BONO 



Oh ! wind that whistles o'er thorns and 

 thistles 



Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf ; 

 Why should he labour to help his neighbour 



Who feels too reckless to help himself? 

 The wail of the breeze in the bending trees 



Is something between a laugh and a groan ; 

 And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore 



Is a dull, discordant monotone ; 

 I wish I could guess what sense they express, 



There's a meaning, doubtless, in every 

 sound, 

 Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well, — 



Whom would it profit ? the world goes 

 round ! 



On this earth so rough, we know quite enough, 



And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much ; 

 The sage may be wiser than clown or than 

 kaiser, 



Is he more to be envied for being such ? 

 Neither more nor less, in his idleness, 



The sage is doom'd to vexation sure ; 

 The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool 



That he calls his throne, is no sinecure ; 



11 



