Had with a rival run a race;
It did its best, to gain had tried,
But came back home, alas! and died.
The tenderest one, perhaps, of all,
Upon a critic chanced to call;
He hooted at the homespun gown,
And bent his bitter, blackest frown
Upon the waif, and read its fate
Where winter winds could congregate.
I thought I heard its funeral bell,