Thou dost innocently enjoy;
I would I could look down unmoved,
(Unloving as I am unloved,)
And while the world throngs on beneath,
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;
And never sad with others' sadness,
And never glad with others' gladness,
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.
NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
OCCASIONED BY A FLY DRINKING OUT OF THE
AUTHOR'S CUP.
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, both mine and thine,
Hasten quick to their decline!
Thine's a summer; mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore!
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as show as one!
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;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature self's thy Ganymede.
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 plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
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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?
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,
Endless 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 giv'n 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!
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights; for, when tired out with
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.
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
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass!
Oh 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 songIn doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. LEIGH HUNT.
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
FINE humble-bee! fine 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;
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.
Flower-bells,
Honeyed cells,-
These the tents
Which he frequents.
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!
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,
Tints the human countenance
With a 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 tune,
Telling 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,
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,
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.
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.
"O! 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;
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.
The waves of the fount in a black pool spread; He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance, And in thunder sounds the garden's doom.
Down springs the bird with 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.
NEXT to thee, O fair gazelle,
O Beddowee girl, beloved so well
Next to the fearless Nedjidee,
As the Almehs lift their arms in dance
A slumberous 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;
With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze,
Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee; And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase.
Next to ye both, I love the Palm,
And there the poets, in thy praise,
With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm; Should night and morning frame new lays—
Next to ye both, I love the tree
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three
With love, and silence, and mystery!
New measures sung to tunes divine;
But none, O Palm, should equal mine!
At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye From the sandy sea uprising, as the water
The changeful play of signals gay; when the A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the gloom is speckled o'er courser's fiery motion.
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