THE MUSHROOM'S SOLILOQUY.

O what, and whence am I, 'mid damps and dust, And darkness, into sudden being thrust? What was I yesterday? and what will be, Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?

Poor, lone, unfriended, ignorant, forlorn, To bear the new, full glory of the morn, Beneath the garden wall I stand aside, With all before me, beauty, show, and pride.

Ah! why did nature shoot me up to light, A thing unfit for use—unfit for sight; Less like her work, than like a piece of art, Whirled out and trimmed exact in every part?

Unlike the graceful shrub and flexile vine, No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine. No humming-bird, nor butterfly, nor bee Will come to cheer, caress or flatter me.

No beauteous flower adorns my humble head, No spicy odors on the air I shed; But here I 'm stationed in my sober suit, With only top and stem—I 've scarce a root.

Untaught of my beginning and my end, I know not whence I sprang, or where I tend; Yet, I will wait and trust, and ne'er presume To question JUSTICE—I, a frail Mushroom!