The Cornelian
No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre _only once_ it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reprov'd me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure, the giver lov'd me.
He offer'd it with downcast look,
As _fearful_ that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My _only fear_ should be, to lose it.
This pledge attentively I view'd,
And _sparkling_ as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And, ever since, _I've lov'd a tear._
Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he, who seeks the flowers of truth,
Must quit the garden, for the field.
'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume;
The flowers, which yield the most of both,
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
_His_ would have been an ample share,
If well proportioned to his mind.
But had the Goddess clearly seen,
His form had fix'd her fickle breast;
_Her_ countless hoards would _his_ have been,
And none remain'd to give the rest.