236 TREASURES, THE VULGAR IN THEIR SCORN REJECT. 



Figured by Hand Divine there 's not a gem 

 Wrought by man's art to be compared to them ; 

 Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow, 

 And make the moonbeam brighter where they flow, 

 Involved in sea-wrack, here you find a race, 

 Which science doubting, knows not where to place ; 

 On shell or stone is dropped the embryo seed, 

 And quickly vegetates a vital breed. 



While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect 

 Treasures, the vulgar in their scorn reject, 

 See as they float along th' entangled weeds 

 Slowly approach, upborne on bladdery beads ; 

 Wait till they land, and you shall then behold 

 The fiery sparks those tangled fronds infold, 

 Myriads of living points ; the unaided eye 

 Can but the fire and not the form descry. 

 And now your view upon the ocean turn, 

 And there the splendour of the waves discern; 

 Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar, 

 And you shall flames within the deep explore ; 

 Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand, 

 And the cold flames shall flash along your hand ; 

 When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze 

 On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze. 



CKABBB. 



