217
A NOVEMBER STROLL.
'Twas in late Autumn, that I rambled lone
Along a country path—nay, 'twas a road—
A common turnpike road;—that thing so far
From landscape loveliness, as Poets deem;
Yet I could find that myriad beauties lay
E'en in that beaten track:—beauties to me,
Though hundreds daily passed along, to whom
The things I gloried in were all unknown,
Unseen—unloved; and, doubtless, I must seem
A strange, odd, uncouth being unto them—
Because I sought delightful lore in books
Whose language they knew not; while foreign tongues,
And fashion's erudition, they would strive,
Ambitious, to acquire. Had they e'er read
One page of Nature, with the love devout
Which some are blessed withal, they would not think
That mind distraught, which could delight itself
In contemplation of the smallest weed,
Pebble—leaf—insect—which the lap of earth
Holds in exhaustless wealth. Envy they might
In their small spirits suffer to arise,
