Ah! PUDDLE, doom'd to wander through the street, And force thy way o'er many a rugged stone, The Muse, tear-tributing, thy stream shall greet, And sympathize with thee in gurgling groan. Pure was thy source as Morn's etherial dew, Though now, mud-mingling, must thy current flow, Ordain'd to creep the broken pavement through, And sputter-splash the stockings of the Beau. Pure too was MAN, when in his infant state, Ere VICE sprang forth, that puddle of the Soul; And MAN in thee may trace his kindred fate, As both along TIME'S mazy kennel roll. For MAN, sin-soil'd, at scouring PENANCE aims, As thou to clean thyself in silver THAMES.
