 | New poems |  |
73
THE PHILOSOPHER AND HIS NEIGHBOUR.
O, I have a good neighbour Toadie,
And under my door-step he sits;
Yet sometimes he hops out to see me,
And has very sociable fits.
But this is when evening or morning
Has narrowed the flood-gates of light:
He comes forth to bid me “Good-morrow!”
Again, to exchange a “Good-night!”
And under my door-step he sits;
Yet sometimes he hops out to see me,
And has very sociable fits.
But this is when evening or morning
Has narrowed the flood-gates of light:
He comes forth to bid me “Good-morrow!”
Again, to exchange a “Good-night!”
'T is then such a soft, silky rustling
He makes, bouncing through the tall grass,
You 'd think it the robe of a prelate,
To which you 're to bow as you pass.
And oft do we hold such a confab
On things of sky, earth, and the sea,
You 'd deem each affair of creation
Inspected by Toadie and me.
He makes, bouncing through the tall grass,
You 'd think it the robe of a prelate,
To which you 're to bow as you pass.
And oft do we hold such a confab
On things of sky, earth, and the sea,
You 'd deem each affair of creation
Inspected by Toadie and me.
For he, though in no wise a gossip,
And living so lonely and low,
Yet seems by some strange inspiration
Our whole mundane matters to know.
I asked him one day, “What 's the jewel
The great bard of Avon has said
Thy people, uncomely, unlovely,
Still carry about in the head?
And living so lonely and low,
Yet seems by some strange inspiration
Our whole mundane matters to know.
I asked him one day, “What 's the jewel
The great bard of Avon has said
Thy people, uncomely, unlovely,
Still carry about in the head?
74
“Now, is it that curious optic,
Which looks like fine sand-grains of gold,
Or some precious brilliant close-covered,
That mine has not power to behold?”
“Ah, ha!” he replied, “now I take you!
Did men find we 'd gems in the brain,
They 'd crush our whole race, in their madness
To seize on the pitiful gain!
Which looks like fine sand-grains of gold,
Or some precious brilliant close-covered,
That mine has not power to behold?”
“Ah, ha!” he replied, “now I take you!
Did men find we 'd gems in the brain,
They 'd crush our whole race, in their madness
To seize on the pitiful gain!
“For how the great lords of creation
To ocean's deep caverns go down,
And rend open earth's quiet bosom,
Their passions or idols to crown!
They mount the thin air, and at heaven
Seem aiming, in gas-carried cars!
I see not at what they are driving,
Unless 't is to gather the stars.
To ocean's deep caverns go down,
And rend open earth's quiet bosom,
Their passions or idols to crown!
They mount the thin air, and at heaven
Seem aiming, in gas-carried cars!
I see not at what they are driving,
Unless 't is to gather the stars.
“They envy the poor little muscle
Its shell, where 't is sunk in the brine;
And if we had aught they could covet,
Ah! woe were to me and to mine.
The jewel in question, believe me,
Is one they 'd not readily wear;
But still they are hapless without it,
And burdened with labor and care.
Its shell, where 't is sunk in the brine;
And if we had aught they could covet,
Ah! woe were to me and to mine.
The jewel in question, believe me,
Is one they 'd not readily wear;
But still they are hapless without it,
And burdened with labor and care.
“Peace, temperance, meekness, contentment,—
Whate'er be our looks or estate;
Wherewith we've no pride for the little,
No envy to feel for the great;—
These make up the gems; and their setting
Is wisdom to hold them secure,—
The gold, which you 'll find, if you try it,
To be the most precious and pure!”
Whate'er be our looks or estate;
Wherewith we've no pride for the little,
No envy to feel for the great;—
These make up the gems; and their setting
Is wisdom to hold them secure,—
The gold, which you 'll find, if you try it,
To be the most precious and pure!”
75
He ceased from his sage elocution,
To bid me an evening adieu;
Then left me to ponder the moral,
And crept to his cell out of view.
'T is there, free from care, sin, and sorrow,
More blest than the king on his throne,
He sits in his “solitude sweetened,”
And holds the Philosopher's Stone.
To bid me an evening adieu;
Then left me to ponder the moral,
And crept to his cell out of view.
'T is there, free from care, sin, and sorrow,
More blest than the king on his throne,
He sits in his “solitude sweetened,”
And holds the Philosopher's Stone.
| New poems | |