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
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endlest rest.
Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.
OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A
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, Endiess 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!
HAPPY songster, perched above, On the summit of the grove, Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing With the freedom of a king; From thy perch survey the fields, Where prolific Nature yields Nought that, willingly as she, Man surrenders not to thee. For hostility or hate
None thy pleasures can create. Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of Spring; Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers. Therefore man thy voice attends Gladly-thou and he are friends; Nor thy never-ceasing strains Phoebus or the Muse disdains As too simple or too long, For themselves inspire the song. Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, Ever singing, sporting, playing, What has nature else to show Godlike in its kind as thou?
Translation of WILLIAM COWPER.
ON 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
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 thero shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.
GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of JuneSole 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, Both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural songIn doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.
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! Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air, Voyager of light and noon, Epicurean of June!
Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,- All without is martyrdom,
When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall; And, with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance With the color of romance; And infusing subtle heats Turns the sod to violets,— Thou in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow breezy bass.
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 bird-like 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 north-western blast. Cools sea and land so far and fast,- Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
FROM fruitful beds and flowery borders, Parcelled to wasteful ranks and orders, Where state grasps more than plain truth needs, And wholesome nerbs are starved by weeds,
To the wild woods I will be gone, And the coarse meals of great Saint John.
When truth and piety are missed, Both in the rulers and the priest; When pity is not cold but dead,
And the rich eat the poor like bread; While factious heads, with open coile And force, first make, then share the spoile; To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the desert grows the rose.
Haile, chrystal fountaines and fresh shades, Where no proud look invades, No busie worldling hunts away The sad retirer all the day! Haile, happy, harmless solitude! Our sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world; the calm recess Of faith, and hope, and holiness! Here something still like Eden looks; Honey in woods, juleps in brooks; And flowers, whose rich, unrifled sweets With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets, When the toils of the day are done, And the tired world sets with the sun. Here flying winds and flowing wells Are the wise, watchful hermit's bell: Their busie murmurs all the night To praise or prayer do invite; And with an awful sound arrest, And piously employ his breast.
When in the East the dawn doth blush,
Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush.
And hard by shelters on some bough Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.
Oh, purer years of light and grace! Great is the difference, as the space, 'Twixt you and us, who blindly run After false fires, and leave the sun. Is not fair nature of herself Much richer than dull paint and pelf? And are not streams at the spring head More sweet than in carved stone or lead? But fancy and some artist's tools Frame a religion for fools.
The truth, which once was plainly taught, With thorns and briars now is fraught. Some part is with bold fable spotted, Some by strange comments wildly blotted; And discord, old corruption's crest, With blood and shame have stained the rest. So snow, which in its first descents A whiteness like pure heaven presents, When touched by man is quickly soiled, And after trodden down and spoiled.
Oh, lead me where I may be free, In truth and spirit to serve Thee! Where undisturbed I may converse With Thy great Self; and there rehearse Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store,
Who art all blessings, beg much more.
Give me the wisdom of the bee,
And her unwearied industrie!
That, from the wild gourds of these days,
I may extract health, and Thy praise,
Herbs straight get up; flowers peep and Who canst turn darkness into light,
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head; Birds, from the shades of night released, Look round about, then quit the nest, And with united gladness sing The glory of the morning's King. The hermit hears, and with meek voice Offers his own up, and their, joyes; Then prays that all the world might be Blest with as sweet an unity.
If sudden storms the day invade, They flock about him to the shade, Where wisely they expect the end, Giving the tempest time to spend;
And in my weakness shew Thy might.
Suffer me not in any want To seek refreshment from a plant Thou didst not set; since all must be Plucked up, whose growth is not from Thea 'Tis not the garden and the bowers, Nor sense and forms, that give to flowers Their wholesomeness; but Thy good will, Which truth and pureness purchase still.
Then since corrupt man hath driven hence Thy kind and saving influence, And balm is no more to be had In all the coasts of Gilead;
THE Spice-Tree lives in the garden green; Beside it the fountain flows; And a fair bird sits the boughs between, And sings his melodious woes.
No greener garden e'er was known Within the bounds of an earthly king; No lovelier skies have ever shone Than those that illumine its constant Spring.
That coil-bound stem has branches three; On each a thousand blossoms grow; And, old as aught of time can be, The root stands fast in the rocks below.
In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire The fount that builds a silvery dome; And flakes of purple and ruby fire
Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam.
The fair white bird of flaming crest, And azure wings bedropt with gold, Ne'er has he known a pause of rest, But sings the lament that he framed of old:
"O Princess bright! how long the night Since thou art sunk in the waters clear! How sadly they flow from the depth belowHow long must I sing and thou wilt not hear?
"The waters play, and the flowers are gay, And the skies are sunny above;
I would that all could fade and fall, And I, too, cease to mourn my love.
"Oh! many a year, so wakeful and drear, I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for
But there comes no breath from the chambers of death,
While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree."
The skies grow dark, and they glare with red;
The tree shakes off its spicy bloom; The waves of the fount in a black pool spread; And in thunder sounds the garden's doom.
Down springs the bird with a long shrill cry, Into the sable and angry flood;
And the face of the pool, as he falls from high,
Curdles in circling stains of blood.
But sudden again upswells the fount; Higher and higher the waters flow— In a glittering diamond arch they mount, And round it the colors of morning glow.
Finer and finer the watery mound Softens and melts to a thin-spun veil, And tones of music circle around, And bear to the stars the fountain's tale.
And swift the eddying rainbow screen Falls in dew on the grassy floor; Under the Spice-Tree the garden's Queen Sits by her lover, who wails no more.
NEXT to thee, O fair gazelle,
O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;
Next to the fearless Nedjidee,
Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;
Next to ye both, I love the Palm, With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;
Next to ye both, I love the tree Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three With love, and silence, and mystery!
Our tribe is many, our poets vie With any under the Arab sky; Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.
The marble minarets that begem Cairo's citadel-diadem
Are not so light as his slender stem.
He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance, As the Almehs lift their arms in dance
A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, That works in the cells of the blood like wine.
Full of passion and sorrow is he, Dreaming where the beloved may be.
And when the warm south winds arise, He breathes his longing in fervid sighs,
Quickening odors, kisses of balm, That drop in the lap of his chosen palm.
The sun may flame, and the sands may stir, But the breath of his passion reaches her.
O Tree of Love, by that love of thine, Teach me how I shall soften mine!
Give me the secret of the sun, Whereby the wooed is ever won!
If I were a king, O stately Tree, A likeness, glorious as might be,
In the court of my palace I'd build for thee
With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, And leaves of beryl and malachite;
With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze, And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase.
TIGER! Tiger! burning bright. In the forest of the night; What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burned the ardor of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand forged thy dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil! What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, In the forest of the night; What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
THE lion is the desert's king; through his domain so wide
Right swiftly and right royally this night he means to ride.
By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, close couches the grim chief; The trembling sycamore above whispers with every leaf.
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