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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
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!

WALTER HArte.

ON THE GRASSHOPPER.

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

ANACREON. (Grck.)

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

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 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
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 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!
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!

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

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,

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.

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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,
Aud the tired world sets with the sun.
Alere flying winds and flowing wells
Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells
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.

71

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,

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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

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;
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.

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
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 sumberous 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;

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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?

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.

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