Poet

Well you may say so. The clamor of the river, Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife, Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver, But never climb to this purer, higher life!

Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa, Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at, Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa-- (A shot.) Hallo! What's that?