University of Virginia Library

RHYME ABOUT A BULLFROG,

IN A CITY APOTHECARY'S WINDOW.

Thine is no note to tickle gentle ears,
Grim songster of the marsh!
But dissonant and harsh—
Unlovely, as thy countenance appears.
Mournfully sit'st thou, gazing, day by day,
With dolorous, dismal looks,
Thinking, perchance, of brooks
In green remembered meadows far away;
Or on some cool retreat in distant bogs,
Where the zephyr speeds,
Whistling on reeds,
Chiming in harmony with thy kindred frogs.
I gaze upon thee, frog, and gaze in pity;
A “rus. in urb.” they call 't,
I think, but if in fault,
In English thou 'rt a rustic in the city,
Like some old Israelite by Babel's stream,
Solemnly sitting there,
With sadness in thine air,
Spending thy days in one regretful dream.
Some call thee ugly, but they do thee wrong,
And I for native beauty
Will stand out as in duty;
Thou 'rt prettier far than many sons of song,—
Men of the hairy mouths, as if they 'd bite ye,
Roaring their crazy notes
From transatlantic throats,
Signors Bamboozleum and Lignumvitæ.
And we are fain thy sadness to beguile;
Rouse ye, my prince of frogs,
Throw sadness to the dogs,
And give us once the sunshine of a smile.
Alas! he 's senseless as the nether stone.
He heeds not sympathy,
He sees, yet does not see,
He in the city's crowd is all alone.