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 endlest rest. ANACREON. (Greek.) Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY. A SOLILOQUY. OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect! ever blest In the burning summer thou 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! WALTER HArte. ON THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY songster, perched above, None thy pleasures can create. Sweetly the return of Spring; Harming neither herbs nor flowers. Translation of WILLIAM COWPER ANACREON. (Grck.) ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. THE poetry of earth is never dead : That is the grasshopper's-he takes the lead fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, JOHN KRATS 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 O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song— In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. LEIGH HUNT. TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. BURLY, dozing humble-bee! Insect lover of the sun, Tints the human countenance Hot Midsummer's petted crone, Aught unsavory or unclean Grass with green flag half-mast high, Sipping only what is sweet, 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 Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,All without is martyrdom, When the south wind, in May days, THE BEE. 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. Haile, chrystal fountaines and fresh shades, 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! Much richer than dull paint and pelf? 71 The truth, which once was plainly taught, Oh, lead me where I may be free, 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, THE Spice-Tree lives in the garden green; No greener garden e'er was known That coil-bound stem has branches three; In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam. The fair white bird of flaming crest, "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, "Oh! many a year, so wakeful and drear, I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for thee! 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; 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; Finer and finer the watery mound And swift the eddying rainbow screen JOHN STERLING THE ARAB TO THE PALM. NEXT to thee, O fair gazelle, O Beddowee girl, beloved so well; Next to the fearless Nedjidee, THE PALM. 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 Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. The marble minarets that begem 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 sumberous motion, a passionate sign, 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, 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, In the court of my palace I'd build for thee With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, And leaves of beryl and malachite; TIGER! Tiger! burning bright, In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, WILLIAM BLAKE. THE LION'S RIDE. 78 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. |