University of Virginia Library


264

SONG.

[“The Home of Taste,” say souls of dust]

[_]

Auld Lang Syne.

The Home of Taste,” say souls of dust,
“Is not for men who toil:
For bread alone they till, and must,
Life's hopeless soil.”
But here comes he whom no one knows,
The thrall of tasteless power;
Why plucks he, as he homeward goes,
The hawthorn flower?
Red Rose, that lov'st the cottage door,
If hope within there be!
Why stops a wretch so tired and poor,
To look on thee?
Oh, yet the greatest and the least
A Home of Taste will find!
And Knowledge spread her beauteous feast
For all mankind!
The only high and heart-based throne
Is unclass'd virtue's prize;
For who are great? The good alone,
They only wise.

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And what, sweet rose, sweet hawthorn flower,
To hind, or artisan,
Are Taste's pure charm, and Beauty's power,
But God in Man?