Shapes of Clay

As the poor ass that from his paddock strays

Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise,

Recounting volubly their well-bred leer,

Their port impressive and their wealth of ear,

Mistaking for the world's assent the clang

Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue;

So the dull clown, untraveled though at large,

Visits the city on the ocean's marge,

Expands his eyes and marvels to remark

Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark;

Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares

That native merchants sell imported wares,

Nor comprehends how in his very view

A foreign vessel has a foreign crew;

Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth,

Swears it superior to aught on earth,

Sighs for the temples locally renowned—

The village school-house and the village pound—

And chalks upon the palaces of Rome

The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!"