 | Poetical sketches |  |
At last Cornelian-Bay they tread,
With all it's myriad treasures spread;
Gems of all kinds—red, white, square, round—
A new Golconda above ground!
And now they struggle through the shingle,
Here group'd round some bright prize, there single:
“Look what an onyx, Sir, is mine,
“Enough to make a quaker pine;
“Though they nor brooch nor bracelet wear,
“Necklace nor pendant at the ear!
“Take it, dear Kate,” fond Ella said,
“And bear it, polish'd, on your head:
“The giver, all ungloss'd by art,
“Wear still, beloved, in your heart.”
With all it's myriad treasures spread;
94
A new Golconda above ground!
And now they struggle through the shingle,
Here group'd round some bright prize, there single:
“Look what an onyx, Sir, is mine,
“Enough to make a quaker pine;
“Though they nor brooch nor bracelet wear,
“Necklace nor pendant at the ear!
“Take it, dear Kate,” fond Ella said,
“And bear it, polish'd, on your head:
“The giver, all ungloss'd by art,
“Wear still, beloved, in your heart.”
| Poetical sketches | |