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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 PAEKER WILLIS.

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 Phæbus loves, and does inspire;
Phæbus 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 !)
Satiated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.

ANACREON. (Greek) Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

THE FLY.

OOCASIONED 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!

ON THE GRASSHOPPER.

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!

VINCENT BOTENE.

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 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 !

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
Phæbus 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?

ANACREOX. (Greek) Translation of WILLIAM COWPER.

SUMMER.

71

A SOLILOQUY.

OOCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A

GRASSIIOPPER.

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 some grassy hills.

JOHN KEATS.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

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!

WALTER HARTE.

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

soon, 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.

LEIGI HUNT.

TO THE HUMBLE-BEE

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;

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"0! many a year, so wakeful and drear, Our tribe is many, our poets vie I have sorrowed and watched, beloved, for With any under the Arab sky; thee!

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. But there comes no breath from the chambers of death,

The marble minarets that begem While the lifeless fount gushes under the tree.”

Cairo's citadel-diadem

Are not so light as his slender stem. The skies grow dark, and they glare with red; The tree shakes off its spicy bloom; 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.

As the Almehs lift their arms in dance

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Next to the fearless Nedjidee,

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,

Vext 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!

BAYARD TAYLOR

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His feet have wings; see how he springs

across the moonlit plain! THE LION'S RIDE.

As from their sockets they would burst, his

glaring eyeballs strain; The lion is the desert's king; through his In thick black streams of purling blood, full

fast his life is fleeting; domain so wide Right swiftly and right royally this night he The stillness of the desert hears his heart's

tumultuous beating. means to ride. By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds

drink, close couches the grim chief; Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, The trembling sycamore above whispers with the path of Israel traced

Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit

of the wasteAt evening, on the Table Mount, when ye From the sandy sea uprising, as the watercan see no more

spout from ocean, 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.

every leaf.

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