Page:Poems of home and country (IA poemsofhomecount01smit).pdf/165

 Rests under the snow, fair mantle, but strange,

Wrought to hide like a pall, the triumph of Change!

We hate it; we love it, avoid it, or seek.

We praise what endures; yet, with attitude meek,

A change of condition we anxiously woo, -

Convinced 't will be better, if only 't is new.

So begs the fair child, as he runs from his play,

And stands by the side of his grandmother gray,

To see the new volume of pictures just bought,

Of things never seen, and of battles ne'er fought,

To turn every leaf, with the hastiest kiss,

In love with the next, impatient of this;

The glance of an instant, enough for his brain;

The scenery must then be shifted again.

The child, like a mirror, reflects but the man, —

Two sizes worked out on the very same plan.

The farmer, uneasy, is weary of toil,

Despises the slow-growing wealth of the soil;

Aspires to be rich in a day without work,

To eat like an alderman, smoke like a Turk.

Leaving turnips and hay, he sells buttons and braid.

He stocks a fine store, plays gymnastics in trado;

Talks wisely of tariffs and duties and laces,

Of cases of goods, and of fraudulent cases;

Drives a fine, fancy horse, buys a costly piano,

And frowns if they say his wealth smells of guano;

Consumes in one year what he gathered in ten,

And inust climb from the foot of the ladder again.

He thought he should see his broad acres extend;

Have money in plenty, to use and to lend;

Take his wife to the mountains, the sea or the springs;

Wear broadcloth the finest, and costhest rings;