A New Suit.

The artist and the loom unseen,     In textures soft as crepe de chine     Spring weaves her royal robe of green,         With grasses fringed and daisies dotted,     With furzy tufts like mosses fine     And showy clumps of eglantine,     With dainty shrub and creeping vine         Upon the verdant fabric knotted.     Oh, winter takes our love away     For ashen hues of sober gray!     So when the blooming, blushing May         Comes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle,     With arbutus her corsage laced,     And roses clinging to her waist,     We crown her charming queen of taste,         Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle.     For eighteen centuries and more     Her fairy hands have modeled o'er     The same habiliments she wore         At her primeval coronation;     And still the pattern exquisite,     For every age a perfect fit,     In every land the favorite,         Elicits world-wide admiration.     Gay butterflies of fashion, you     Who wear a suit a year or two,     Then agitate for something new,         Look at Regina, the patrician!     Her cleverness is more than gold     Who so transforms from fabrics old     The things a marvel to behold,         And glories in the exhibition.     Why worry for an overdress,     The acme of luxuriousness,     Beyond all envy to possess,         Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces!     Why flutter round in pretty pique     To follow style's capricious freak,     To match pongee or moire antique,         And break your peace in hopeless pieces?     O mantua-maker, costumer,     And fair-robed wearer! study her     And imitate the conjurer         So prettily economizing,     Without demur, regret, or pout,     Who always puts the bright side out     And never frets at all about         The world's penchant for criticizing.