(Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
After Anacreon, by Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]
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 the grassy hills.
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET
GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June; Sole 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 their natural song- In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
THE CRICKET
LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Every dish, and spoil the best; Frisking thus before the fire,
Thou hast all thy heart's desire.
Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear Melody throughout the year.
Neither night nor dawn of day Puts a period to thy play: Sing then-and extend thy span Far beyond the date of man;
Wretched man, whose years are spent In repining discontent,
Lives not, agèd though he be,
Half a span, compared with thee.
From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800]
VOICE of summer, keen and shrill, Chirping round my winter fire, Of thy song I never tire, Weary others as they will,
For thy song with summer's filled- Filled with sunshine, filled with June; Firelight echo of that noon Heard in fields when all is stilled In the golden light of May, Bringing scents of new-mown hay, Bees, and birds, and flowers away, Prithee, haunt my fireside still, Voice of summer, keen and shrill.
William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]
I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,
Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist,
Thou pretty Katydid!
Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,—
Old gentlefolks are they,—
Thou say'st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way.
Thou art a female, Katydid! I know it by the trill
That quivers through thy piercing notes, So petulant and shrill;
I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree,- A knot of spinster Katydids,- Do Katydids drink tea?
Oh, tell me where did Katy live, And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young, And yet so wicked, too? Did Katy love a naughty man, Or kiss more cheeks than one? I warrant Katy did no more Than many a Kate has done.
Dear me! I'll tell you all about My fuss with little Jane,
And Ann, with whom I used to walk So often down the lane,
And all that tore their locks of black, Or wet their eyes of blue,- Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, What did poor Katy do?
Ah no! the living oak shall crash, That stood for ages still,
The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid
Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid
Whose name she knows so well.
Peace to the ever-murmuring race! And when the latest one
Shall fold in death her feeble wings
Beneath the autumn sun,
Then shall she raise her fainting voice,
And lift her drooping lid,
And then the child of future years
Shall hear what Katy did.
Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, As if he grew there, house and all
Within that house secure he hides, When danger imminent betides, Of storm, or other harm besides Of weather.
Give but his horns the slightest touch, His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much Displeasure.
Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Except himself, has chattels none, Well satisfied to be his own
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, Nor partner of his banquet needs, And if he meets one, only feeds
Who seeks him must be worse than blind (He and his house are so combined),
If, finding it, he fails to find
From the Latin of Vincent Bourne,
by William Cowper [1731-1800]
THE HOUSEKEEPER
THE frugal snail, with forecast of repose, Carries his house with him where'er he goes; Peeps out, and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile again.
« PreviousContinue » |