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!

But ah! my Toadie, there's the rub,
With every human breast--
To live as in the cynic's tub,
And yet be self-possessed!

For, how to let no boast get round
Beyond our tub, to show
That we in head and heart are sound,
Is one great thing to know.

And yet, the prison-staves and hoop
To let no murmur through,
However hard we find the coop,
Is greater still to do.

Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm,
Amid thy low estate;
And to thy burrow bear the palm
For victory over fate.

We conquer, when we meekly bear
The lot we cannot shape;
And hug to death the ills and care
From which there's no escape.

=The Blind Musician=

"Ah! who comes here?" old Raymond cried,
As lone he sat by the highway-side,
Where Frisk jumped up at his knee in play;
And his white locks went to the air astray;--
While his