Are turned upon the slightest hinge,
And thus some seeming pettiest chance,
Oft gives to life its after tinge.
Oh, for a home in Zululand, or Arctic regions cold,
A peasant’s cot or hermit’s hut, midst solitude untold,
With Kaffirs or with Hottentots, in Egypt or Leone—
’Twere bliss to live in any spot where albums are unknown.
In times of prosperity our friends are many,