The Speckled One

Poor speckled one! none else will deign
To waft thy name around;
So, let me take it on my strain,
To glare it air and sound.

Yes—air and sound, low child of earth!
For these are oft the things
That give a name its greatest worth,
Its gorgeous plumes and wings.

But do not shun me thus, and hop
Affrighted from my way.
Dismiss thy terrors—turn, and stop;
And hear what I may say.

Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?
This truly should not be.
Then calmly pause, and let me scan
My Maker's work in thee.

For both of us to him belong;
We're fellow-creatures here;
And power should not be armed with wrong,
Nor weakness filled with fear.

I know it is thy humble lot
To burrow in a hole—
To have a form I envy not,
And that without a soul.

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.