Conversations introducing poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

Wherefore should man or thoughtless boy
Thy quiet harmless life destroy,
Innoxious urchin?—for thy food
Is but the beetle and the fly,
And all thy harmless luxury
The swarming insects of the wood.

Should man to whom his God has given
Reason, the brightest ray of heaven,
Delight to hurt, in senseless mirth,
Inferior animals?—and dare
To use his power in waging war
Against his brethren of the earth?

Poor creature! to the woods resort,
Lest lingering here, inhuman sport
Should render vain thy thorny case;
And whelming water, deep and cold,
Make thee thy spiny ball unfold,
And shew thy simple negro face!

Fly from the cruel; know than they
Less fierce are ravenous beasts of prey,
And should perchance these last come near thee;
And fox or martin cat assail,
Thou, safe within thy coat of mail,
May cry—Ah! noli me tangere.

THE EARLY BUTTERFLY.

Trusting the first warm day of spring,
When transient sunshine warms the sky,
Light on his yellow spotted wing
Comes forth the early butterfly.

With wavering flight, he settles now
Where pilewort spreads its blossoms fair,
Or on the grass where daisies blow,
Pausing, he rests his pinions there.

But insect! in a luckless hour
Thou from thy winter home hast come,
For yet is seen no luscious flower
With odour rich, and honied bloom.

And these that to the early day
Yet timidly their bells unfold,
Close with the sun's retreating ray,
And shut their humid eyes of gold.

For night's dark shades then gather round,
And night-winds whistle cold and keen,
And hoary frost will crisp the ground
And blight the leaves of budding green!

And thou poor fly! so soft and frail,
May'st perish e'er returning morn,
Nor ever, on the summer gale,
To taste of summer sweets be borne!

Thus unexperienc'd rashness will presume
On the fair promise of life's opening day,
Nor dreams how soon the adverse storms may come,
“That hush'd in grim repose, expect their evening prey.”

THE MOTH.

When dews fall fast, and rosy day
Fades slowly in the west away,
While evening breezes bend the future sheaves;
Votary of vesper's humid light,
The moth, pale wanderer of the night,
From his green cradle comes, amid the whispering leaves.

The birds on insect life that feast,
Now in their woody coverts rest,
The swallow slumbers in his dome of clay,
And of the numerous tribes who war
On the small denizens of air,
The shrieking bat alone is on the wing for prey.

Eluding him, on lacey plume
The silver moth enjoys the gloom,
Glancing on tremulous wing thro' twilight bowers,
Now flits where warm nasturtiums glow,
Now quivers on the jasmine bough,
And sucks with spiral tongue the balm of sleeping flowers.

Yet if from open casement stream
The taper's bright aspiring beam,
And strikes with comet ray his dazzled sight;
Nor perfum'd leaf, nor honied flower,
To check his wild career have power,
But to the attracting flame he takes his rapid flight.

Round it he darts in dizzy rings,
And soon his soft and powder'd wings
Are singed; and dimmer grow his pearly eyes,
And now his struggling feet are foil'd,
And scorch'd, entangled, burnt, and soil'd,
His fragile form is lost—the wretched insect dies!

Emblem too just of one, whose way
Thro the calm vale of life might lay,
Yet lured by vanity's illusive fires
Far from that tranquil vale aside,
Like this poor insect suicide
Follows the fatal light, and in its flame expires.

THE GLOW-WORM.

If on some balmy breathing night of Spring
The happy child, to whom the world is new,
Pursues the evening moth of mealy wing,
Or from the heath flower beats the sparkling dew,
He sees, before his inexperienc'd eyes,
The brilliant glow-worm like a meteor shine
On the turf bank; amaz'd and pleas'd he cries,
“Star of the dewy grass, I make thee mine!”
Then, e'er he sleeps, collects the moisten'd flower,
And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold,
And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower,
Yet with the morning shudders to behold
His lucid treasure, rayless as the dust.
So turns the world's bright joys to cold and blank disgust.

THE MIMOSA.

Softly blow the western breezes,
Sweetly shines the evening sun;
But you, mimosa! nothing pleases,
You, what delights your comrades teizes,
What they enjoy you try to shun.

Alike annoy'd by heat or cold,
Ever too little or too much,
As if by heaviest winds controul'd,
Your leaves before a zephyr fold,
And tremble at the slightest touch.

Flutt'ring around, in playful rings,
A gilded fly your beauty greeted;
But, from his light and filmy wings,
As if he had lanced a thousand stings,
Your shuddering folioles retreated!

Those feathery leaves are like the plume,
Pluck'd from the bird of Indian skies;
But should you therefore thus presume,
While others boast a fairer bloom,
All that surrounds you to despise?

The rose, whose blushing blossoms blow,
Pride of the vegetal creation,
The air and light disdains not so,
And the fastidious pride you show,
Is not reserve, but affectation.

THE DORMOUSE JUST TAKEN.

Sleep on, sleep on, poor captive mouse,
Oh sleep! unconscious of the fate
That ruthless spoil'd thy cosey house,
And tore thee from thy mate.

What barbarous hand could thus molest
A little innocent like thee,
And drag thee from thy mossy nest
To sad captivity?

Ah! when suspended life again
Thy torpid senses shall recall,
Poor guiltless prisoner! what pain
Thy bosom shall appal.

When starting up in wild affright,
Thy bright round eyes shall vainly seek
Thy tiny spouse, with breast so white,
Thy whisker'd brethren sleek;

Thy snug warm nest with feathers lined,
Thy winter store of roots and corn;
Nor nuts nor beech-mast shalt thou find,
The toil of many a morn.

Thy soft white feet around thy cage
Will cling; while thou in hopeless pain
Wilt waste thy little life in rage,
To find thy struggles vain!

Yet since thou'rt fall'n in gentle hands,
Oh! captive mouse, allay thy grief,
For light shall be thy silken bands,
And time afford relief.

Warm is the lodging, soft the bed,
Thy little mistress will prepare;
By her kind hands thou shalt be fed,
And dainties be thy fare.

But neither men nor mice forget
Their native home, where'er they be,
And fondly thou wilt still regret
Thy wild woods, loves, and liberty!

Cosey, a Scottish expression for snug.