What atom forms of insect life appear!
And who can follow nature's pencil here?
Their wings with azure, green, and purple glossed,
Studded with coloured eyes, with gems embossed,
Inlaid with pearl, and marked with various stains
Of lively crimson, through their dusky veins.
Some shoot like living stars athwart the night,
And scatter from their wings a vivid light,
To guide the Indian to his tawny loves,
As through the woods with cautious step he moves.
See the proud giant of the beetle race,
With shining arms his polished limbs enchase!
Like some stern warrior formidably bright,
His steely sides reflect a gleaming light;
On his large forehead spreading horns he wears,
And high in air the branching antlers bears;
O'er many an inch extends his wide domain,"
And his rich treasury swells with hoarded grain.
-MRS BARBAuld.
THE DAY-FLY.
POOR insect! what a little day
Of sunny bliss is thine!
And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay,
And bidd'st them, spreading, shine.
Thou humm'st thy short and busy tune,
Unmindful of the blast;
And careless, while 'tis burning noon,
How quick that noon be past.
A shower would lay thy beauty low;
A dew of twilight be
The torrent of thy overthrow-
Thy storm of destiny!
Then spread thy little shining wing,
Hum on thy busy lay;
For man, like thee, has but his spring-
Like thine it fades away.
SONG OF THE BEES.
WE watch for the light of the morning to break,
And colour the gray eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake,
Then say to each other," Awake, awake!
For our winter's honey is all to make,
And our bread for a long supply."
Then off we hie to the hill and the dell,
To the field, the wild wood, and bower;
In the columbine's horn we love to dwell,
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,
To search the balm in its odorous cell,
The thyme, and the rosemary flower.
We seek for the bloom of the eglantine,
The lime, pointed thistle, and brier;
And follow the course of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a stage still higher.
As each for the good of the whole is bent,
And stores up his treasure for all,
We hope for an evening with heart's content
For the winter of life, without lament
That summer is gone, with its hours misspent,
And the harvest is past recall!
THE ANT. INDUSTRY.
THESE emmets, how little they are in our eyes!
We tread them to dust, and a troop of them dies,
Without our regard or concern:
Yet as wise as we are, if sent to their school,
There's many a sluggard and many a fool
Some lessons of wisdom might learn.
They don't wear their time out in sleeping or play,
But gather up corn in a sunshiny day,
And for winter they lay up their stores;
They manage their work in such regular forms,
One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms,
And so brought their food within doors.
But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant,
If I take not due care for the things I shall want,
Nor provide against dangers in time;
When death and old age shall stare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,
If I trifle away all their prime!
Now, now while my strength and my youth are in bloom, Let me think what shall save me when sickness shall come, sins be forgiven.
Let me read in good books, and believe, and obey,
That when death turns me out of this cottage of clay,
I may dwell in a palace in heaven.
PRITHEE, little buzzing fly,
Eddying round my taper, why
Is it that its quivering light
Dazzling captivates your sight?
Bright my taper is, 'tis true;
Trust me, 'tis too bright for you.
'Tis a flame, fond thing, beware-
'Tis a flame you cannot bear.
Touch it, and 'tis instant fate;
Take my counsel ere too late:
Buzz no longer round and round-
Settle on the wall or ground:
Sleep till morning: with the day
Rise, and use your wings you may:
Use them then of danger clear.
Wait till morning; do, my dear.
Lo! my counsel nought avails;
Round, and round, and round it sails-
Sails with idle unconcern :
Prithee, trifler, canst thou burn?
Madly heedless as thou art,
Know thy danger, and depart.
Why persist? I plead in vain :
Singed it falls, and writhes in pain.
Is not this, deny who can-
Is not this a draught of man?
Like the fly, he rashly tries
Pleasure's burning sphere, and dies.
Vain the friendly caution; still
He rebels, alas! and will.
What I sing let pride apply:
Flies are weak, and man's a fly.
BUSY, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short, and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.
WHAT various wonders may observers see
In a small insect-the sagacious bee!
Mark how the little untaught builders square
Their rooms, and in the dark their lodgings rear!
Nature's mechanics, they unwearied strive,
And fill with curious labyrinths the hive.
See what bright strokes of architecture shine
Through the whole frame-what beauty, what design!
Each odoriferous cell and waxen tower—
The yellow pillage of the rifled flower
Has twice three sides, the only figure fit
To which the labourers may their stores commit,
Without the loss of matter or of room,
In all the wondrous structure of the comb.
Next view, spectator, with admiring eyes,
In what just order all the apartments rise!
So regular their equal sides cohere,
The adapted angles so each other bear;
That by mechanic rules, refined and bold,
They are at once upheld, at once uphold.
Does not this skill even vie with reason's reach?
Can Euclid more, can more Palladio teach?
Each verdant hill the industrious chemists climb,
Extract the riches of the blooming thyme;
And, provident of winter long before,
They stock their caves, and hoard their flowing store.
In peace they rule their state with prudent care,
Wisely defend, or wage offensive war.
TO 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.
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 that 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.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life's 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,
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retirest to endless rest.
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