Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, Alas! how he fumbles about the domains He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall, Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed; The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the East and the West, and the South and the North; But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide. See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh; His eyesight and hearing are lost ; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; No Brother, no Friend has he near him—while I As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds, And back to the forests again. The CHILDLESS FATHER. "Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! -Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, The Girls on the hills made a holiday show. The bason of box-wood*, just six months before, * In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased. |