The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 44

All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All the summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice.

Man for thee does sow and plow, Farmer he, and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently enjoy; Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire Phoebus 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.

After Anacreon, by Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]

ON THE GRa.s.sHOPPER 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 Gra.s.shopper'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 Gra.s.shopper's among the gra.s.sy hills.

John Keats [1795-1821]

TO THE GRa.s.sHOPPER AND THE CRICKET

Green little vaulter in the sunny gra.s.s, 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 bra.s.s; And you, warm little housekeeper, who cla.s.s With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pa.s.s; O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your suns.h.i.+ne; 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.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

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 surpa.s.sest, happier far, Happiest gra.s.shoppers 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, aged though he be, Half a span, compared with thee.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800]

TO A CRICKET

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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 c.o.x Bennett [1820-1895]

TO AN INSECT

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]

THE SNAIL

To gra.s.s, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, As if he grew there, house and all Together.

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 Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, Nor partner of his banquet needs, And if he meets one, only feeds The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind (He and his house are so combined), If, finding it, he fails to find Its master.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, by William Cowper [1731-1800]