=The Lame House=

O, I cannot bring to mind
When I’ve had a look so kind,
Gentle lady, as thine eye
Gives me, while I’m limping by! 
Then, thy little boy appears
To regard me but with tears. 
Think’st thou he would like to know
What has brought my state so low?

When not half so old as he,
I was bounding, light and free,
By my happy mother’s side,
Ere my mouth the bit had tried,
Or my head had felt the rein
Drawn, my spirits to restrain. 
But I’m now so worn and old,
Half my sorrows can’t be told.

When my services began,
How I loved my master, man! 
I was pampered and caressed,—­
Housed, and fed upon the best. 
Many looked with hearts elate
At my graceful form and gait,—­
At my smooth and glossy hair
Combed and brushed with daily care.

Studded trappings then I wore,
And with pride my master bore,—­
Glad his kindness to repay
In my free, but silent way. 
Then was found no nimble steed
That could equal me in speed,
So untiring, and so fleet
Were these now, old, aching feet.

But my troubles soon drew nigh: 
Less of kindness marked his eye,
When my strength began to fail;
And he put me off at sale. 
Constant changes were my fate,
Far too grievous to relate. 
Yet I’ve been, to say the least,
Through them all a patient beast.

Older—­weaker—­still I grew: 
Kind attentions all withdrew! 
Little food, and less repose;
Harder burdens—­heavier blows,—­
These became my hapless lot,
Till I sunk upon the spot! 
This maimed limb beneath me bent
With the pain it underwent.

Now I’m useless, old, and poor,
They have made my sentence sure;
And to-morrow is the day,
Set for me to limp away,
To some far, sequestered place,
There at once to end my race. 
I stood by, and heard their plot—­
Soon my woes shall be forgot!

Gentle lady, when I’m dead
By the blow upon my head,
Proving thus, the truest friend,
Him who brings me to my end;
Wilt thou bid them dig a grave
For their faithful, patient slave;
Then, my mournful story trace,
Asking mercy for my race?

=Humility; or, The Mushroom’s Soliloquy.=

O, what, and whence am I, ’mid damps and dust,
And darkness, into sudden being thrust? 
What was I yesterday? and what will be,
Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?

Poor—­lone—­unfriended—­ignorant—­forlorn,
To bear the new, full glory of the morn,—­
Beneath the garden wall I stand aside,
With all before me beauty, show, and pride.

Ah! why did Nature shoot me thus to light,
A thing unfit for use—­unfit for sight;
Less like her work than like a piece of Art,
Whirled out and trimmed—­exact in every part?

Unlike the graceful shrub, and flexible vine,
No fruit—­no branch—­nor leaf, nor bud, is mine. 
No singing bird, nor butterfly, nor bee
Will come to cheer, caress, or flatter me.