O'er the deep! o'er the deep! IN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, But at dusk he 's abroad and well! Where the whale and the shark and the sword- But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, fish sleep, The boldest will shrink away! O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl, Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight! If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl, Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl! TO THE HUMBLEBEE. BURLY, dozing humblebee! Tells of countless sunny hours, Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Aught unsavory or unclean Grass with green flag half-mast high, Sipping only what is sweet, A SOLILOQUY; OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect! ever blest In the burning summer thou Proud to gratify thy will, Fach, alike, in youth rehearses WALTER HARTE. THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect! what can be Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; 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!) 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 GRASSHOPPER AND 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 this natural song, THE CRICKET. LEIGH HUNT. LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Though in voice and shape they be I own you 're a very ancient race, TO A MOSQUITO. And Greece and Babylon were amid; You have tenanted many a royal dome, And dwelt in the oldest pyramid; FAIR insect, that, with thread-like legs spread out, The source of the Nile!-O, you have been there! Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, In the ark was your floodless bed; But still, though I reverence your ancestries, The meadows are yours, - the hedgerow and brook, The fruits and the flowers are your rightful dowers, I have never disturbed your slender shells; In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing, And tell'st how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them freely in thy need; I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, green, The offspring of the gods, though born on earth. At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway, Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist! And, fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. But now you must fly from the soil of your sires; O, these were sights to touch an anchorite!Then put on your liveliest crawl, And think of your poor little snails at home, Now orphans or emigrants all. Utensils domestic and civil and social I give you an evening to pack up; What, do I hear thy slender voice complain? Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light, As if it brought the memory of pain: Thou art a wayward being, well, come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear. But if the moon of this night does not rise on What say'st thou, slanderer? "Rouge makes your flight, To-morrow I'll hang each man Jack up. You'll think of my peas and your thievish tricks, With tears of slime, when crossing the Styr. thee sick, And China bloom at best is sorry food; And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood"? Go, 't was a just reward that met thy crime, But shun the sacrilege another time. |