Oh! lonely, gentle, unobtrusive mule!

Thou standest idly 'gainst the azure sky,

And sweetly, sadly singeth like a hired man.

Who taught thee thus to warble

In the noontide heat and wrestle with

Thy ceep, corroding grief and joyless woe?

Who taught thy simple heart

Its pent-up, wildly-warring waste

Of wanton woe to carol forth upon

The silent air?

I chide thee not, because thy

Song is fraught with grief-embittered

Monotone and joyless minor chords

Of wild, imported melody, for thou

Art restless, woe begirt and

Compassed round about with gloom,

Thou timid, trusting, orphan mule!

Few joys indeed, are thine,

Thou thrice-bestricken, madly

Mournful, melancholy mule.

And he alone who strews

Thy pathway with his cold remains

Can give thee recompense

Of lemoncholy woe.

He who hath sought to steer

Thy limber, yielding tail

Ferninst thy crupper-band

Hath given thee joy, and he alone.

'Tip true, he may have shot

Athwart the Zodiac, and, looking

O'er the outer walls upon

The New Jerusalem,

Have uttered vain regrets.

Thou reckest not, O orphan mule,

For it hath given thee joy, and

Bound about thy bursting heart,

And held thy tottering reason

To its throne.

Sing on, O mule, and warble

In the twilight gray,

Unchidden by the heartless throng.

Sing of thy parents on thy father's side.

Yearn for the days now past and gone:

For he who pens these halting,

Limping lines to thee

Doth bid thee yearn, and yearn, and yearn.