Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear!
An' forward, though I canna see, I guess an' fear!
THE GRASSHOPPER
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's 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 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 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]
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