nd millions on the planet to-day,
Of all sorts, and all sizes, all ranks we may say;
There's a rabble of pots, with the dregs and the scum,
And a peerage of pots, above finger and thumb.

Look round in this pottery, look down to the ground,
Where bottle and mug, jug and pottle abound;
From the plebeian throng see the graded array;
There is shelf above shelf of brittle display,
As rank above rank the poor mortals arise,
From menial purpose to princely disguise.

See vessels of honor, emblazoned with cash,
Of standing uncertain, preparing to dash.
See some to dishonor, in common clay-bake,
Figure high where the fire and the flint do partake.

There's the bottle of earth by glittering glass,
As by blood of the gentlest excelling its class,
Becoming instanter
A portly decanter!

There's the lowly bowl, or the basin broad,
By double refinement a punch-bowl lord!
There's the beggarly jug, ignoble and base,
By adornment of art the Portland vase!

But call them, title them, what you will,
They're bound to break, they are brittle still;
No saving pieces, or repairing,
No Spaulding's glue for human erring;
All alike they will go together,
And lie in Potter's field forever.

At length the whole secret of life is told:
'Tis because we're earth, and not of gold,
'Tis because we're ware that beware we must,
Lest we crack, and break, and crumble to dust.

What wonder that men so clash together,
And in the clash so break with each other!
Or that households are full of family jars,
And boys are such pickles in spite of papas!
That the cup of ill-luck is drained to the dregs,
When a man's in his cups and not on his legs!
That meaning should be in that word for a sot,
He's ruined forever--he's going to pot!

So goes the world and its generations,
So go its tribes, and its tribulations;
Crowding together on the stream of time,
It almost destroys the chime of my rhyme,
While they strike, and they grind, and rub and dash,
And are sure to go to eternal smash.
Lamentable sight to be seen here below!
Man after man sinking,--blow after blow,--
A bubble, a choke,--each blow is a knell,--
Broken forever! There's no more to tell.

* * * * *

There _is_ more to tell, of a promise foretold;
Though now 'tis a vessel of homeliest mold,
Yet 'tis that which will prove a crock of gold,
Wh