THE SPECKLED ONE.

Poor speckled one! none else will deign

To waft thy name around;

So, let me take it on my strain,

To give it air and sound.

Yes — air and sound, low child of earth!

For these are oft the things

That give a name its greatest worth,

Its gorgeous plumes and wings.

But do not shun me thus, and hop

Affrighted from my way.

Dismiss thy terrors — turn, and stop;

And hear what I may say.

Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?

This truly should not be.

Then calmly pause, and let me scan

My Maker's work in thee.

For both of us to him belong;

We‘ re fellow-creatures here;

And power should not be armed with wrong,

Nor weakness filled with fear.

I know it is thy humble lot

To burrow in a hole —

To have a 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‘ t were, a secret shelf

Whereon is a supply,

Of nourishment within thyself,

Concealed from mortal eye.

Methinks this self-sustaining art

‘ T were 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.