Written In An Artificial Pleasure-Ground

'Tis pretty, doubtless: water, grass, and trees, The man who hath a heart must always please: The morning glories from yon steaming lake A thousand colours into being wake; The naked sunlight of the summer day Is veiled by boughs that overarch the way; And moonlight sweetly in her silver flood Bathes the long reaches of the lawn and wood. But ever comes upon the sated breast A sense of incompleteness and unrest, A loathing of the fretfulness of men, And yearning for Earth's natural face again. Thus when surprised our family circle bend Over some token sent us by a friend, Admire the traces of his happy art, Turn every side, and criticise each part,-- Emblazoned in the tradesman's mystic lines Lo at the back a three--and--sixpence shines!