He WROUGHT a specs, with magic rim, of strange, and subtle parts,

For by those optics made by him, he saw men's inmost hearts,

The grim old sage, 'twas of his fads, to wear those wrysome lamps,

For evermore, and find the lads, the worldly-wise, and scamps.

He saw the plottings, and the strife, he saw the woes, and tears!

The murky glooms of unknown life, the spring of hopes, and fears,

The sham of face, the sham of name, the sham of heart within;

He sifted all, and wrote for fame, record of unknown sin.

"Ho, ho!" cried he at length, "I wis, the dross of men is such,

'Tis surfeit, thus to seek for this, it palls me overmuch;

I'll seek a gem of human hearts, and find it, if I can,"—

He sought at home, and foreign parts, to meet an honest man.

In that pursuit, a year and seven, did on his labours fall;

"Heigho!" cried he, "outside of Heaven, they're masks, and faces all!

Now, this old sage, thro' many a year, had never thought of self,

Before he used the specs: in fear, his mirror, on a shelf,

He set, with face down evermore, lest by a glance, that he

Should pry into the evil store, of his own villainie.

But, fishing in a pool one day, the sage forgot his specs—

To take it from his nose,—and hey! a horror, to perplex

His soul with fear, was under him; for, in the glassy wave,

He saw his heart reflected grim! he saw his new-made grave:

He saw, that he himself was worst, of all that he had seen;

By sight of conscience, he was curst, the evil deeds, had been

Dry rotting in his blackened heart, the place he feared to search,

And self-reproach, did send a dart, that knocked him off his perch;

The rod and line, fell from his hand, the specs fell off his nose:

And he was drowned, in sight of land, in all his Sunday clothes.