But now still Eve her mantle threw
O'er the soft sky of sweetest blue;
The happy bird on topmost spray,
"Singing the last song of the day,"
Rejoic'd aloud that th' hour of rest
Was rocking now her quiet nest,
And that she knew the rising morn
Would show her many a hoard of corn;
At distance saw a wandering tribe
That every darkening thicket ey'd;
And, where the matted moss had wound
The hawthorn's antique root around,
All full of mirth, and full of glee,
They hope the blackbird's nest to see,
Whose bright blue eggs, in graceful line,
Would 'midst the rows of pewter shine;
There speckl'd and the brown unite,
The iron-gray and yellow-white;
Nor could the little wren's escape,
Though smallest thing of oval shape.
These plunderers, as others do,
Hang out their ill-got wealth to view,
When dressers deck'd for Sunday's show
Call forth their platters row by row;
What though by some unlucky stroke
The king or queen or prince is broke;
What though they can no more contain
The mantling juice in every vein,
To show you that they yet are there,
They edge behind, and half appear,
Still eking out the grand design
Of making all the house look fine.
What more could high-priced baubles do!
Go, search the empty world through!
The hard-wrought, far-sought, diamond bring —
That much admired glittering thing;
From China or Japan go draw
The gilded chair and works of show;
Bid France her silken loom employ,
And Gobelins weave the fall of Troy;
Panama bid her pearls dispose
In innocent and humble rows;
Yet still, if such things do but please,
The cottage shelf may rival these;
For all depends, we mostly find,
Upon the eye within the mind;
Then, Ignorance, in quiet rest,
Thou'rt soonest pleas'd, and cheaply blest!