The snap of his tremendous bill was like Death's scythe, down cutting everything it
The heedless lizard, in his gambols, peeped Upon the guarded nest, from out the flowers, But paid the instant forfeit of his life; Nor could the serpent's subtlety elude Capture, when gliding by, nor in defence Might his malignant fangs and venom save him.
Erelong the thriving brood outgrew their cradle,
Ran through the grass, and dabbled in the pools;
No sooner denizens of earth than made Free both of air and water; day by day, New lessons, exercises, and amusements Employed the old to teach, the young to learn. Now floating on the blue lagoon behold them; The sire and dam in swan-like beauty steering, Their cygnets following through the foamy wake, Picking the leaves of plants, pursuing insects, Or catching at the bubbles as they broke : Till on some minor fry, in reedy shallows, With flapping pinions and unsparing beaks, The well-taught scholars plied their double art, To fish in troubled waters, and secure The petty captives in their maiden pouches; Then hurried with their banquet to the shore, With feet, wings, breast, half swimming and half flying.
But when their pens grew strong to fight the
And buffet with the breakers on the reef, The parents put them to severer proof; On beetling rocks the little ones were mar- shalled;
There, by endearments, stripes, example, urged To try the void convexity of heaven, And plough the ocean's horizontal field. Timorous at first they fluttered round the verge, Balanced and furled their hesitating wings, Then put them forth again with steadier aim ; Now, gaining courage as they felt the wind Dilate their feathers, fill their airy frames With buoyancy that bore them from their feet, They yielded all their burden to the breeze, And sailed and soared where'er their guardians
Ascending, hovering, wheeling, or alighting, They searched the deep in quest of nobler game Than yet their inexperience had encountered; With these they battled in that element, Where wings or fins were equally at home, Till, conquerors in many a desperate strife, They dragged their spoils to land, and gorged at leisure.
THAT HAUnted the WATERS OF LAAKEN IN THE WINTER.
O MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day Thou standest by the margin of the poor, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school To patience, which all evil can allay. God has appointed thee the fish thy prey,
And given thyself a lesson to the fool Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.
There need not schools nor the professor's chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : He who has not enough for these to spare, Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair, Nature is always wise in every part.
WHITHER, midst falling dew,
He who, from zone to zone,
The halcyon loves in the noontide beam Guides through the boundless sky thy certain To follow his sport on the tranquil stream
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
THE STORMY PETREL.
A THOUSAND miles from land are we, Tossing about on the stormy sea, From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast.
The sails are scattered abroad like weeds; The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains,
The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown.
Up and down! - up and down!
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amidst the flashing and feathery foam The stormy petrel finds a home,
A home, if such a place may be
IN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral owl doth dwell;
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he 's abroad and well! Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; All mock him outright by day;
But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away!
O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl!
And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom;
And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom;
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, As she waits in her tree so still; But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill !
O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl!
Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight! The owl hath his share of good : If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood! Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride; Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside!
So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, Sing, hol for the reign of the horned owl! We know not alway Who are kings by day,
But the king of the night is the bold brown owl!
TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. BURLY, dozing humble-bee! Where thou art is clime for me; Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek,
I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid zone ! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines.
Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure.
Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets, and bilberry bells, Maple sap, and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, And brier-roses, dwelt among : All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher, Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, —
OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER.
HAPPY insect! ever blest
With a more than mortal rest, Rosy dews the leaves among, Humble joys, and gentle song! Wretched poet ! ever curst With a life of lives the worst, Sad despondence, restless fears, Endless jealousies and tears.
In the burning summer thou Warblest on the verdant bough, Meditating cheerful play, Mindless of the piercing ray; Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I Ever weep and ever die.
Proud to gratify thy will, Ready Nature waits thee still; Balmy wines to thee she pours, Weeping through the dewy flowers, Rich as those by Hebe given To the thirsty sons, of heaven. Yet, alas, we both agree. Miserable thou like me! Each, alike, in youth rehearses Gentle strains and tender verses; Ever wandering far from home, Mindless of the days to come (Such as aged Winter brings Trembling on his icy wings), Both alike at last we die; Thou art starved, and so am I!
THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect, what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink and dance and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All the summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plough, Farmer he, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently enjoy, Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou,
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But when thou'st drunk and danced and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.
ANACREON (Greek). Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.
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. JOHN KEATS.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon When even 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!
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest! While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Every dish, and spoil the best; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thy heart's desire.
Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are ; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpaired and shrill and clear, Melody throughout the year.
I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist,
Thou pretty Katydid! Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, -
Old gentlefolks are they, Thou say'st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way.
Thou art a female, Katydid!
I know it by the trill
That quivers through thy piercing notes, So petulant and shrill.
I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree, A knot of spinster Katydids, - Do Katydids drink tea?
My sooth; right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and gray as ony grozet ; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum !
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't, Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat; But Miss's fine Lunardi, fie! How daur ye do 't?
O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread!
REMONSTRANCE WITH THE SNAILS.
YE little snails,
With slippery tails,
Who noiselessly travel Along this gravel,
By a silvery path of slime unsightly,
I learn that you visit my pea-rows nightly. Felonious your visit, I guess !
And I give you this warning, That, every morning,
I'll strictly examine the pods;
And if one I hit on,
With slaver or spit on,
Your next meal will be with the gods.
I own you're a very ancient race, And Greece and Babylon were amid; You have tenanted many a royal dome,
And dwelt in the oldest pyramid;
The source of the Nile !-O, you have been there! In the ark was your floodless bed; On the moonless night of Marathon You crawled o'er the mighty dead;
But still, though I reverence your ancestries, I don't see why you should nibble my peas.
The meadows are yours, the hedgerow and brook, You may bathe in their dews at morn; By the aged sea you may sound your shells, On the mountains erect your horn; The fruits and the flowers are your rightful dowers, Then why- in the name of wonder- Should my six pea-rows be the only cause To excite your midnight plunder?
I have never disturbed your slender shells; You have hung round my aged walk; And each might have sat, till he died in his fat, Beneath his own cabbage-stalk :
But now you must fly from the soil of your sires; Then put on your liveliest crawl,
And think of your poor little snails at home, Now orphans or emigrants all.
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