The Mole

Rude architect! rich instinct's natural taste
Is thine by heritage. — Thy little mounds,
Bedecking furze-clad heath, and rushy waste,
And traced with sheep-tracks, shine like pleasure-grounds.
No rude inelegance thy work confounds,
But scenes of picturesque and beautiful
Lie 'mid thy little hills of cushioned thyme,
On which the cow-boy, when his hands are full
Of wild flowers, leans upon his arm at rest,
As though his seat were feathers. When I climb
Thy little fragrant mounds, I feel thy guest,
And hail Neglect thy patron, who contrives
Waste spots for thee on Nature's quiet breast,
Taste loving best where thy still labour thrives.