K I- NIL WORTH. 203
The humbling creed, That all is vanity, doth force a way Into the gayest heart, that trusts itself To ruminate amid these buried wrecks Of princely splendor and baronial pomp. Methinks the spirit of true wisdom loves To haunt such musing shades. The taller plants Sigh to the lowly ones, and they again Give lessons to the grass, and now and then Shake a sweet dewdrop on it, to reward A docile temper ; while each leaf imprints Its tender moral on the passer-by, " Ye all, like us, must fade."
Here comes a bee,
From yon forsaken bower, as if to watch Our piracies upon her honey-cups, Perchance, with sting to guard them. Light of wing I Hast e er a hive amid those tangled boughs ? "We 11 not invade thy secrecy, nor thin Thy scanty hoard of flowers. Let them bloom on ; Why should we rob the ruin of a gem, Which God hath set, to help its poverty ?
It seems like an illusion still, to say
I ve been at Kenilworth. But yet t is true.
And when once more I reach my pleasant home,
In Yankee land, should conversation flag
Among us ladies, though it seldom does,
When of our children, and our housekeeping,
And help we speak, yet should there be a pause,
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