The soft, sweet breeze
  Through budding trees
Now fans my brow so hoary: 
  And these old eyes
  Find new supplies
Of light from nature’s glory.

  Though poor my cot,
  And low my lot,
With thee, my richest treasure,
  I take my cup,
  And looking up,
Bless Him who gives my measure.

=The Speckled One=

Poor speckled one! none else will deign
  To waft thy name around;
So, let me take it on my strain,
  To give it air and sound.

Yes—­air and sound, low child of earth! 
  For these are oft the things
That give a name its greatest worth,
  Its gorgeous plumes and wings.

But do not shun me thus, and hop
  Affrighted from my way! 
Dismiss thy terrors—­turn and stop;
  And hear what I may say.

Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man? 
  This truly should not be. 
Then calmly pause, and let me scan
  My Maker’s work in thee.

For both of us to Him belong;
  We’re fellow-creatures here;
And power should not be armed with wrong,
  Nor weakness filled with fear.

I know it is thy humble lot
  To burrow in a hole—­
To have a form I envy not,
  And that without a soul.

In motion, attitude and limb
  I see thee void of grace;
And that a look supremely grim,
  Reigns o’er thy solemn face.

But thou for this art not to blame;
  Nor should it make us load
With obloquy, and scorn, and shame
  The honest name of TOAD.

For, though so low on nature’s scale—­
  In presence so uncouth,
Thou ne’er hast told an evil tale,
  Of falsehood, or of truth.

Thy thoughts are ne’er on malice bent—­
  Nor hands to mischief prone;
Nor yet thy heart to discontent;
  Though spurned, and poor and lone.

No coveting nor envy burns
  In thy bright golden eye,
That calm and innocently turns
  On all below the sky.

Thy cautious tongue and sober lip
  No words of folly pass,
Nor, are they found to taste and sip
  The madness of the glass.

Thy frugal meal is often drawn
  From earth, and wood, and stone;
And when thy means by these are gone,
  Thou seem’st to live on none.

I hear that in an earthen jar
  Sealed close, shut up alive,
From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,
  Thou’lt live and even thrive:—­

And that no moan, or murmuring sound
  Will issue from the lid
Of thy dark dwelling under ground,
  When it is deeply hid.

Thou hast, as ’twere, a secret shelf,
  Whereon is a supply
Of nourishment, within thyself,
  Concealed from mortal eye.

Methinks this self-sustaining art
  ’Twere well for us to know,
To keep us up in flesh and heart,
  When outer means grow low.

Could we contain our riches thus,
  On such mysterious shelves,
Why, none could rob or beggar us;
  Unless we lost ourselves!