Now I'm useless, old, and poor,
They have made my sentence sure;
And to-morrow is the day,
Set for me to limp away,
To some far, sequestered place,
There at once to end my race.
I stood by, and heard their plot--
Soon my woes shall be forgot!
Gentle lady, when I'm dead
By the blow upon my head,
Proving thus, the truest friend,
Him who brings me to my end;
Wilt thou bid them dig a grave
For their faithful, patient slave;
Then, my mournful story trace,
Asking mercy for my race?
=Humility; or, The Mushroom's Soliloquy.=
O, what, and whence am I, 'mid damps and dust,
And darkness, into sudden being thrust?
What was I yesterday? and what will be,
Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?
Poor--lone--unfriended--ignorant--forlorn,
To bear the new, full glory of the morn,--
Beneath the garden wall I stand aside,
With all before me beauty, show, and pride.
Ah! why did Nature shoot me thus to light,
A thing unfit for use--unfit for sight;
Less like her work than like a piece of Art,
Whirled out and trimmed--exact in every part?
Unlike the graceful shrub, and flexible vine,
No fruit--no branch--nor leaf, nor bud, is mine.
No singing bird, nor butterfly, nor bee
Will come to cheer, caress, or flatter me.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81