“For he’s my Friend and I am his! 
  Though strong and cold the blast,
My safest guide I know he is
  Where’er my lot is cast.”

When Tom passed on, the children said,
  “These treasures from afar
He brought us!  Blessings on his head! 
  For he’s a good Tom Tar!”

=The Envious Lobster=

A FABLE

A Lobster from the water came,
And saw another, just the same
In form and size; but gayly clad
In scarlet clothing; while she had
No other clothing on her back
Than her old suit of greenish black.

“So ho!” she cried, “’tis very fine! 
Your dress was yesterday like mine;
And in the mud below the sea,
You lived, a crawling thing like me. 
But now, because you’ve come ashore,
You’ve grown so proud, that what you wore—­
Your strong old suit of bottle-green,
You think improper to be seen.

“To tell the truth, I don’t see why
You should be better dressed than I.
And I should like a suit of red
As bright as yours, from feet to head. 
I think I’m quite as good as you,
And might be clothed in scarlet too.”

“Will you be boiled” her owner said,
“To be arrayed in glowing red? 
Come here, my discontented miss,
And hear the scalding kettle hiss! 
Will you go in, and there be boiled,
To have your dress, so old and soiled,
Exchanged for one of scarlet hue?”
“Yes,” cried the Lobster, “that I’ll do,
And twice as much, if needs must be,
To be as gayly clad as she.” 
Then, in she made a fatal dive,
And never more was seen alive!

Now, if you ever chance to know,
Of one as fond of dress and show
As that vain Lobster, and withal
As envious you’ll perhaps recall
To mind her folly, and the plight
In which she reappeared to sight.

She had obtained a bright array,
But for it, thrown her life away! 
Her life and death were best untold,
But for the moral they unfold!

=The Crocus’ Soliloquy=

Down in my solitude, under the snow,
  Where nothing cheering can reach me—­
Here, without light to see how I should grow,
  I trust to nature to teach me. 
I’ll not despair, nor be idle, nor frown;
  Though locked in so gloomy a dwelling! 
My leaves shall shoot up, while my root’s running down,
  And the bud in my bosom is swelling.

Soon as the frost will get off from my bed,
  From this cold dungeon to free me,
I will peer up, with my bright little head;
  All will be joyful to see me! 
Then from my heart will young petals diverge,
  Like rays of the sun from their focus;
When I from the darkness of earth shall emerge,
  All complete, as a beautiful CROCUS!

Gayly arrayed in gold, crimson, and green,
  When to their view I have risen;
Will they not wonder how one so serene
  Came from so dismal a prison? 
Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower
  A wise little lesson may borrow:—­
If patient to-day through the dreariest hour,
  We shall come out the brighter to-morrow!