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This pleasant
tale is like a little copse:
The honied lines so
freshly interlace,
To keep the reader in so sweet a
place,
So that he here and there full-hearted stops;
And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops
Come cool and
suddenly against his face,
And, by the wandering
melody, may trace
Which way the tender-legged linnet
hops.
Oh! what a power has white Simplicity!
What
mighty power has this gentle story!
I, that do ever
feel athirst for glory,
Could at this moment be
content to lie
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose
sobbings
Were heard of none beside the mournful
robins.
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