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. THE MOON OF A WINTRY NIGHT. Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow, That o'er us, on the fields of ether spread, Threatens, ere morning to be here below, To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.