I stray'd along a village street, And as in listless mood I wander'd, The breeze had wafted to my feet Something on which awhile I ponder'd. Was it a precious talisman, Whose magic tracings doth unfold A right by which its bearer can Claim and obtain the treasured gold? Was it a flow'r with tints array'd Such as the vernal suns bestow, Richer than monarch e'er display'd, Was it a fragrant flowret? No! Was it a feather dropt away From some wild bird of varied hues? From moors whereon the plovers stray, Or groves wherein the ringdove coos? Was it the down the thistle yields, That sails through air like drifting snow? Or fairy flax from fenny fields, Or plume from warrior's helmet? No! Or manhood's locks, or maiden's hair, Wafted by breeze through village street? Nor this, nor these--but lying there A filthy rag was at my feet. With dirt begrimed, that remnant mean, Crushed in the mire, I saw no more; But yet I mused on what had been Its various uses heretofore. The great, the humble, grave or gay, Noble or base, whoe'er it clothed, Reject it now, and cast away, 'Tis only seen but to be loathed. Such were my thoughts till slumber came, And then by fancy's vivid light Methought that rag, the very same-- Appear'd again before my sight. No longer were its folds defiled, But pure and white it seem'd as snow, And 'neath a roller whirling wild, I saw the worthless fragment go. And bleach'd and clean, by that machine 'Twas triturated fast; And when 'twas found completely ground, O'er wires its pulp was pass'd. And on and on that rag hath gone, 'Neath cylinders I traced it, And there it roll'd through heat and cold, Whilst giant force embraced it. And I could mark th' electric spark[22] Gleam like a fairy taper; And fair and smooth as the brow of youth, That filthy rag was PAPER. Material fit for Holy Writ And tidings of salvation-- Material grand for a struggling land, When seeking liberation. Material proud to warn aloud 'Gainst slavery's subtle meshes-- Material true to teach the few The many's rights are precious. Material meet for tidings sweet Of distant recollection-- Material best to purge each breast Of Bigotry's infection. Material bright to guide and light The onward march of Reason-- Oh! that old rag has form'd a flag For man's best thoughts to blazon. Then may its use each day produce, From pen and press united, Each noble thought by which we ought To feel our souls excited.