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 up 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 flexile vine,

No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine.

No humming-bird, nor butterfly, nor bee

Will come to cheer, caress or flatter me.

No beauteous flower adorns my humble head,

No spicy odors on the air I shed;

But here I‘ m stationed in my sober suit,

With only top and stem — I‘ ve scarce a root.

Untaught of my beginning and my end,

I know not whence I sprang, or where I tend;

Yet, I will wait and trust, and ne'er presume

To question JUSTICE — I, a frail Mushroom!