'Tis pretty, doubtless: water, grass, and trees,
The man who hath a heart must always please:
The morning glories from yon steaming lake
A thousand colours into being wake;
The naked sunlight of the summer day
Is veiled by boughs that overarch the way;
And moonlight sweetly in her silver flood
Bathes the long reaches of the lawn and wood.

But ever comes upon the sated breast
A sense of incompleteness and unrest,
A loathing of the fretfulness of men,
And yearning for Earth's natural face again.

Thus when surprised our family circle bend
Over some token sent us by a friend,
Admire the traces of his happy art,
Turn every side, and criticise each part,--
Emblazoned in the tradesman's mystic lines
Lo at the back a three--and--sixpence shines!