Welcome on earth’s green breast again, Ye flowerets dear! In spring how charming ’mid the grain Your heads ye rear. Like stars ’midst lightning’s yellow ray Ye shine red, blue: O, how your summer aspect gay Delights my view.
O poet! poet! silence keep, God help thy case: Our owner holds us sadly cheap, And scorns our race. Each time he sees, he calls us scum, Or worthless tares; Hell-weeds that but to vex him come ’Midst his corn-ears.
The greatest grace done for our sake In all his life, Is from his pocket deep to take His huge clasp knife; And heavy handful then to cut, ’Midst grumbling much— Us with tobacco leaves to put In seal-skin pouch.
He says, he says, that smoked this way, We dross of the field, To the world by chance, by poor chance, may Some benefit yield; But as for our beauty, our blue and red hues, ’Tis folly indeed— The mouth is his only test of use, And that’s his creed.
O wretched mortals!—O wretched man! O wretched crowd!— No pleasures ye pluck—no pleasures ye plan In life’s lone road:— Whose eyes are blind to the glories great Of the works of God; And dream that the mouth is the nearest gate To joy’s abode.
Come flowers! for we to each other belong, Come graceful elf, And around my lute in sympathy strong Now wind thyself; And quake as if mov’d by zephyr’s wing, ’Neath the clang of the chord, And a morning song with glee we’ll sing To our Maker and Lord!
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.