TO A WORLDLING, TIRED OF COUNTRY LIFE 351
��TO A WORLDLING, TIRED OF COUNTRY LIFE.
O, who art thou, that 'mongst these trees Canst find for thought no cahn retreat ?
These boughs to thee are but " ship knees," The grass mere hay beneath thy feet.
These mighty oaks, of shade immense, Thou reckonest meanly by the cord ;
These hemlocks thou dost count in pence ; To gold thou turnest even the sward.
O modern Midas ! thou art one
Whose glance profanes these groves and streams, To whose bleared eye yon golden sun
But a gigantic dollar seems.
These fragrant flowers that scent the air. These shady bowers, yield thee no pleasure ;
And from yon height the landscape fair Only in acres canst thou measure.
To thee yon mountain seems a mine.
Those greenwoods planks all straight and sound,
And the rich clusters of yon vine Hang each a shilling in the pound.
Thou in these fertile fields dost stand, And mourn the peace that is not thine.
O fool ! As if wise Nature's hand
E'er casts her priceless pearls to swine !
Like scum, thou mountest upward still, To live with Nature at topmast, —
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