And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.
In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.
While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.
'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every day increase
Of a treasure.
=The Shoemaker=
"Honor and shame from no condition rise.
Act well your part:--there all the honor lies."
The shoemaker sat amid wax and leather,
With lapstone over his knee;
Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
A-drawing his quarters and sole together:
A happy old man was he!
This happy old man was so wise and knowing,
The worth of his time he knew.
He bristled his ends, and he kept them going;
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.
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