THE Woods, the rivers, and the meadows green,
With his air-cutting wings he measured wide;
Nor did he leave the mountains bare unseen,
Nor the rank grassy fen's delights untried.
But none of these, however sweet they been,
Might please his fancy, nor him cause abide. This choiceful sense with every change doth flit; No common things may please a wavering wit.
To the gay gardens his unstayed desire
Him wholly carried, to refresh his sprites;
There lavish Nature, in her best attire,
Pours forth sweet odours and alluring sights;
And Art, with her contending, doth aspire
T'excel the natural with made delights;
And all that fair or pleasant may be found,
In riotous excess doth there abound.
There he arriving, round about doth fly
From bed to bed, from one to other border,
And takes survey, with curious busy eye,
Of every flower and herb there set in order;
Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,
Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder;
Nor with his feet their silken wings deface,
But pastures on the pleasures of each place.
And evermore, with most variety
And change of sweetness (for all change is sweet), He casts his glutton sense to satisfy;
Now sucking of the sap of herb most meet, Or of the dew which yet on them does lie; Now in the same bathing his tender feet; And then he percheth on some bank thereby, To weather him, and his moist wings to dry.
THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL.
COME, take up your hat, and away let us haste
To the butterfly's ball, and the grasshopper's feast;
The trumpeter gadfly has summoned the crew,
And the revels are now only waiting for you.
On the smooth-shaven grass, by the side of the wood,
Beneath a broad oak that for ages has stood,
See the children of earth and the tenants of air
For an evening's amusement together repair.
And there came the beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the emmet his friend on his back;
And there was the gnat, and the dragon-fly too,
With all their relations-green, orange, and blue.
And there came the moth, in his plumage of down,
And the hornet with jacket of yellow and brown,
Who with him the wasp, his companion, did bring;
But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.
And the sly little dormouse crept out of his hole,
And led to the feast his blind brother the mole;
And the snail, with his horns peeping out from his shell,
Came from a great distance—the length of an ell.
A mushroom their table, and on it was laid
A water-dock leaf, which a tablecloth made;
The viands were various, to each of their taste;
And the bee brought his honey to crown the repast.
There, close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,
The frog from a corner looked up to the skies;
And the squirrel, well pleased such diversion to see,
Sat cracking his nuts overhead in the tree.
Then out came the spider with fingers so fine,
To shew his dexterity on the tight line;
From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung,
Then as quick as an arrow he darted along.
But just in the middle-oh! shocking to tell!-
From his rope in an instant poor Harlequin fell;
Yet he touched not the ground, but with talons outspread,
Hung suspended in air at the end of a thread.
Then the grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring,
Very long was his leg, though but short was his wing;
He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,
Then chirped his own praises the rest of the night.
With step so majestic the snail did advance,
And promised the gazers a minuet to dance;
But they all laughed so loud, that he pulled in his head,
And went to his own little chamber to bed.
Then as evening gave way to the shadows of night,
Their watchman, the glow-worm, came out with his light;
Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no watchman is waiting for you and for me.
Look upon my web so fine,
See how threads with threads entwine;
If the evening wind alone
Breathe upon it, all is gone.
Thus within the darkest place
Creative Wisdom thou mayst trace;
Feeble though the insect be,
Allah speaks through that to thee.
As within the moonbeam I,
God in glory sits on high,
Sits where countless planets roll,
And from thence controls the whole:
There, with threads of thousand dyes,
Life's bewildering web he plies,
And the hand that holds them all
Lets not even the feeblest fall.
-From the Danish of Oehlenschläger.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
THE poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the grasshopper's: he takes the lead
In summer luxury; he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever;
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June;
Sole voice left stirring midst the lazy noon,
When e'en the bees lag at the summoning brass:
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass:
Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song,
In-doors and out, summer and winter-Mirth.
THE INNOCENT PILFERER.
NOT a flower can be found in the fields,
Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,
From the largest to least, but it yields
The bee, never wearied, a treasure.
Scarce any she quits unexplored,
With a diligence truly exact;
Yet steal what she may for her hoard,
Leaves evidence none of the fact.
Her lucrative task she pursues,
And pilfers with so much address,
That none of their odour they lose,
Nor charm by their beauty the less.
Not thus inoffensively preys
The canker-worm, indwelling foe!
His voracity not thus allays
The sparrow, the finch, or the crow.
The worm, more expensively fed,
The pride of the garden devours;
And birds pick the seed from the bed,
Still less to be spared than the flowers.
But she with such delicate skill,
Her pillage so fits for our use,
That the chemist in vain with his still
Would labour the like to produce.
Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Since, stole she not all that she steals,
Neither honey nor wax would be left.
THE FLOWER AND THE BUTTERFLY.
THE lowly flower said to the winged butterfly:
How different are our fates! here a poor prisoner I,
Thou dost flee.
Yet we love one another, and from men we may
And we are like each other, for we both, they say,
Blossoms are.
'But thou art borne aloft; to earth, O sad despite !
Chained am I.
Alas! with my soft breath I would embalm thy flight
Through the sky.
Ah no! thou flee'st too far; thou all the countless flowers
Fliest to greet;
I stand alone, to see my shadow turn for hours
'Thou flee'st, returnest, flee'st, where bright like thee
Naught appears;
And so with each returning dawn thou findest me
O that with happy, faithful love we both may live,
Charmer mine!
Take thou, like me, root in the earth, or to me give
Wings like thine.'
TO THE WILD BEE.
ONE of my boyhood's dearest loves wert thou,
Melodious rover of the summer bowers;
And never can I see or hear thee now,
Without a fond remembrance of the hours
When youth had gardened life for me with flowers!
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