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 Yet mark yon potter! see the rascal twirl

On one base wheel the dust of prince and churl;

Plebeian potter, 'tis a king's right hand!

And this was once a violet-breathing girl.

'Tis the fair stuff of which the flowers are made,

'Tis beauty's very substance sore decayed,

The brows of ivory, the breasts of myrrh,—

And lo! this fellow turns it to a trade.

Thus spake I to a potter on a day,

Bidding his careless wheel a moment stay—

"Be pitiful, O potter, nor forget

Potters and pots alike are made of clay."

And as I spake I heard a whisper steal,

A sad low laughter, from the potter's wheel,—

Behold! it was my father's sacred dust

For which unwittingly I made appeal.