(Voluptuous and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.

After Anacreon, by Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]

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
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 the grassy hills.

John Keats [1795-1821]

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET

GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June;
Sole 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;
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

The Cricket

1511

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song-
In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859]

THE CRICKET

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 return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be expressed,
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 thy 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, agèd though he be,

Half a span, compared with thee.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne,
by William Cowper [1731-1800]

TO A CRICKET

VOICE of summer, keen and shrill,
Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,
Weary others as they will,

For thy song with summer's filled-
Filled with sunshine, filled with June;
Firelight echo of that noon
Heard in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May,

Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees, and birds, and flowers away,
Prithee, haunt my fireside still,
Voice of summer, keen and shrill.

William Cox Bennett (1820-1895]

TO AN INSECT

I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice,

Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,

Old gentlefolks are they,-Thou say'st an undisputed thing

In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,
So petulant and shrill;

To an Insect

I think there is a knot of you
Beneath the hollow tree,-
A knot of spinster Katydids,-
Do Katydids drink tea?

Oh, tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?

And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more checks than one?

I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I'll tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk
So often down the lane,

And all that tore their locks of black,
Or wet their eyes of blue,-
Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,
What did poor Katy do?

Ah no! the living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,

The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,

Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word, to tell

The mystic story of the maid

Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!

And when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings

Beneath the autumn sun,

Then shall she raise her fainting voice,

And lift her drooping lid,

And then the child of future years

Shall hear what Katy did.

1513

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

THE SNAIL

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides,
Of storm, or other harm besides
Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,

He shrinks into his house with much
Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself, has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind
(He and his house are so combined),

If, finding it, he fails to find

Its master.

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne,

by William Cowper [1731-1800]

THE HOUSEKEEPER

THE frugal snail, with forecast of repose, Carries his house with him where'er he goes; Peeps out, and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain.