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 thy turn thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be exprest,
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 thine 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, aged though he be,
Half a span, compared with thee,
THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy bee!
When abroad I took my early way.
Before the cow from her resting-place
Had risen up, and left her trace
On the meadow with dew so gray,
I saw thee, thou busy, busy bee.
Thou wert alive, thou busy, busy bee!
When the crowd in their sleep were dead;
Thou wert abroad in the freshest hour,
When the sweetest odour comes from the flower.
Man will not learn to leave his lifeless bed,
And be wise, and copy thee, thou busy, busy bee!
Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower;
I heard thee last as I saw thee first,
When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst-
In the coolness of the evening hour
I heard thee, thou busy, busy bee!
Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy bee!
Late and early at employ;
Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy youth in heaping and hoarding is spent,
What thy age will never enjoy.
I will not copy thee, thou miserly bee!
Thou art a fool, thou busy, busy bee!
Thus for another to toil!
Thy master waits till thy work is done,
Till the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And will murder thee, thou poor little bee!
BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream,
A worm is known to stray;
That shows by night a lucid beam,
Which disappears by day.
Disputes have been, and still prevail,
From whence his rays proceed;
Some give that honour to his tail,
And others to his head.
But this is sure-the hand of Might
That kindles up the skies,
"Gives him a modicum of light
Proportioned to his size.
Perhaps indulgent nature meant,
By such a lamp bestowed,
To bid the traveller as he went
Be careful where he trod.
Nor crush a worm, whose useful light
Might serve, however small,
To show a stumbling stone by night,
And save him from a fall.
Whate'er she meant, this truth divine
Is legible and plain-
"Tis power Almighty bids him shine,
Nor bids him shine in vain.
Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme
Teach humbler thoughts to you;
Since such a reptile has its gem,
And boasts its splendour too.
BRIGHT stranger, welcome to my field,
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield;
To me, oh nightly be thy splendour given!
Oh could a wish of mine the skies command,
How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand,
With every sweetest dew of heaven!
Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train
Amid the gambols on the stilly plain,
Hanging thy lamp upon the moistened blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,
Amid the gentle elfin band to shine,
And chase the horrors of the midnight shade?
Oh may no feathered foe disturb thy bower,
And with barbarian beak thy life devour!
Oh may no ruthless torrent of the sky,
O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat;
Nor tempest tear thee from thy green retreat,
And bid thee mid the humming myriads die!
Queen of the insect world, what leaves delight?
Of such these willing hands a bower shall form,
To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.
Sweet child of stillness, mid the awful calm
Of pausing nature thou art pleased to dwell,
In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,
And shed through life a lustre round thy cell.
Thou wert alive, thou busy, busy bee!
When the crowd in their sleep were dea
Thou wert abroad in the freshest hour,
When the sweetest odour comes from
Man will not learn to leave his life'
And be wise, and copy thee, thou by
serve, however stumbling stone
rush a worm, se
him from a fan.
Thou wert working late, thou bu
After the fall of the cistus
I heard thee last as I saw thee
When the primrose-tree bloss
In the coolness of the eve
I heard thee, thou busy, b
Thou art a miser, thou
Late and early at er
Still on thy golden st
Thy youth in heapir
What thy age wi
I will not copy th
Thou art a fool,
Thus for ano
Thy master w
Till the lates'
d's mellow throat
ud and long a swell, .esponsive note
cain side and shadowy dell.
rsting forth to life and light, ffspring of enraptured May, utterfly on pinions bright,
aunched in full splendour on the day.
B Unconscious of a mother's care,
No infant wretchedness she knew;
But as she felt the vernal air,
At once to full perfection grew.
Her slender form, ethereal, light,
Her velvet-textured wings unfold,
With all the rainbow's colours bright,
And dropt with spots of burnished gold.
Trembling awhile, with joy she stood,
And felt the sun's enlivening ray,
Drank from the skies the vital flood,
And wondered at her plumage gay.
And balanced oft her broidered wings,
Through fields of air prepared to sail;
Then on her venturous journey springs,
And floats along the rising gale.
Shall the poor worm that shocks thy sight-
The humblest form in nature's train-
Thus rise in new-born lustre bright,
And yet the emblem teach in vain?
Ah, where were once her golden eyes,
Her glittering wings of purple pride?
Concealed beneath a rude disguise!
A shapeless mass to earth allied.
Like thee the hapless reptile lived,
Like thee she toiled, like thee she spun;
Like thine, her closing hour arrived,
Her labours ceased, her web was done.
And shalt thou, numbered with the dead,
No happier state of being know?
And shall no future sorrow shed
On thee a beam of brighter glow!
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