TO A SHRED OF LINEN.
Would they swept cleaner! —
Here's a littering shred
Of linen left behind — a vile reproach
To all good housewifery. Right glad am I
That no neat lady, train'd in ancient times
Of pudding-making, and of sampler-work,
And speckless sanctity of household care,
Hath happened here to spy thee. She, no doubt,
Keen looking through her spectacles, would say,
"This comes of reading books:" — or some spruce beau,
Essenc'd and lily-handed, had he chanc'd
To scan thy slight superfices, 'twould be,
"This comes of writing poetry." — Well — well —
Come forth — offender! — hast thou aught to say?
Canst thou by merry thought, or quaint conceit,
Repay this risk that I have run for thee?
— Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself
Into thine elements. I see the stalk
And bright, blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread
That fertile land where mighty Moses stretch'd
