217 
A NOVEMBER STROLL. 
’Twas ill late Autumn, that I rambled lone 
Along a country path — nay, ’twas a road — 
A common tumjiike road; — that thing so far 
From landscape loveliness, as Poets deem ; 
Yet I could find that myriad beauties lay 
E ’en in that beaten track: — beauties to me, 
Though hundreds daily passed along, to whom 
The things I gloried in were all miknown. 
Unseen—unloved; and, doubtless, I must seem 
A strange, odd, uncouth being unto them — 
Because I sought delightful lore in books 
Whose language they knew not; while foreign tongues. 
And fashion’s erudition, they would strive. 
Ambitious, to acquire. Had they e’er read 
One page of Nature, with the love devout 
Which some are blessed withal, they would not think 
That mind distraught, which could delight itself 
In contemplation of the smallest weed. 
Pebble — leaf—insect—which the lap of earth 
Holds in exhaustless wealth. Envy they might 
In their small spirits suffer to arise. 
Could they conceive the pleasures, high, refined. 
F !'■ 
