The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
351
ODE TO A BUTTERFLY.
Child of the summer's golden hour,
Who, happy, rov'st from flow'r to flow'r,
Now sportive winnowing 'mid th' expanse of air;
O welcome to my little field!
Each leaf of fragrance may it yield!
Yes, dwell with me, and Nature's bounty share.
Who, happy, rov'st from flow'r to flow'r,
Now sportive winnowing 'mid th' expanse of air;
O welcome to my little field!
Each leaf of fragrance may it yield!
Yes, dwell with me, and Nature's bounty share.
No black Sir Joseph
with his net,
And Jonas , whelm'd with dust and sweat,
Shall rudely chase thee far from my protection;
Wild-leaping ev'ry fence and ditch;
So rank the virtuoso itch,
For making a rare butterfly collection.
And Jonas , whelm'd with dust and sweat,
Shall rudely chase thee far from my protection;
Wild-leaping ev'ry fence and ditch;
So rank the virtuoso itch,
For making a rare butterfly collection.
Yet round thy paper-gibbet, laud would flow,
Amid the knight's brave breakfasts in Soho;
With rapture shown to toast-and-muffin sages:
With thee too, would the royal Journals ring;
And ev'n thy pretty mealy painted wing
Employ description sweet, for fifty pages!
Amid the knight's brave breakfasts in Soho;
With rapture shown to toast-and-muffin sages:
With thee too, would the royal Journals ring;
And ev'n thy pretty mealy painted wing
Employ description sweet, for fifty pages!
Yet what, alas! is praise to people dead?
A panegyric on a lump of lead—
Precisely so!
Ye gods, then, let me all my praises hear—
For verily 'tis wisdom to prefer
One grain above ground, to a pound below.
A panegyric on a lump of lead—
Precisely so!
Ye gods, then, let me all my praises hear—
For verily 'tis wisdom to prefer
One grain above ground, to a pound below.
Rare child of ether, pr'ythee then agree
To choose the offer'd field, and dwell with me:
Here will I mark thee, 'mid thy meals, how chaste!
So busy on the flow'rs of golden hue,
And silver daisies moist with morning dew,
How innocent, how simple thy repast!
To choose the offer'd field, and dwell with me:
352
So busy on the flow'rs of golden hue,
And silver daisies moist with morning dew,
How innocent, how simple thy repast!
Ah! diff'rent far, from us who grossly lave
Our lips in beef and mutton's sanguine wave!
Our lips in beef and mutton's sanguine wave!
Whilst we, a race barbarian, cruel, slay—
From hog, too, form the dinners of the day—
From hog, that lodg'd of yore the imps of evil !
Intrepid he who ventur'd thus to dine!
Methinks the man who dreamt of eating swine,
Must really next have thought of eating devil.
From hog, too, form the dinners of the day—
From hog, that lodg'd of yore the imps of evil !
Intrepid he who ventur'd thus to dine!
Methinks the man who dreamt of eating swine,
Must really next have thought of eating devil.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |