The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;
Phœbus 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.
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.
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.
THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the cow from her resting-place
Had risen up and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so gray,
Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.
Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower;
When the primrose of evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour,
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy Bee.
Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee!
Late and early at employ;
Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent
What thy winter will never enjoy;
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee.
Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee!
What is the end of thy toil.
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil:
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee!
TO A BUTTERFLY.
STAY near me; do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee,
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:-with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
TO THE CICADA.
CICADA! drunk with drops of dew,
What musician equals you,
In the shady solitude?
On a perch amidst the wood,
Scraping to your heart's desire
Dusky sides with notchy feet,
Shrilling, thrilling, fast and sweet,
Like the music of a lyre.
Dear Cicada! I entreat,
Sing the Dryads something new;
So from thick-embowered seat,
Pan himself may answer you.
Till every inmost glade rejoices
With your loud alternate voices:
And I listen, and forget
All the thorns, the doubts and fears,
Love in lover's heart may set;
Listen, and forget them all.
And so, with music in mine ears,
Where the plane-tree shadows steep
The ground with coldness, softly fall
Into a noontide sleep.
WHEN the fir-tree dreams in the drowsy haze
Of the motionless August hour;
When even the eagle-leafed aspen droops,
And asleep is the bird in its bower;
Wakeful alone sends the Waterfall then
Its mellow melodious hum,
Wafting a coolness where all is heat,
And music where all is dumb.
In the bloomy May, when the buoyant day
Is breezy and sunny and glad;
When the lithe bough sweeps and the swift brooks leap,
And the birds sing and soar as if mad;
Amid this orchestral blithesomeness,
This pæan of Spring-time's reign,
The Waterfall's bound fills the scene all round
With its blending, exulting strain.
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