THE BROKEN VASE. 103

Each to his " farm and merchandise " return, Regardless of his wisdom, or perchance Heareth the hammer of harsh criticism Grinding his ore to powder, finer far Than the light sand of Congo's yellow stream. Yea, 'mid earth's passing pilgrims, many a one, Of its new gained possessions fondly proud, Doth, like the patriarch, find his seven years' toil Paid with a poor deceit.

Crush'd vase, farewell.

I thank thee for thy lesson. Thou hast warn'd That the heart's treasures he not rashly risk'd In earthen vessels, but in caskets stor'd, Above the wrecking ministry of Time.

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