And here he hung his horn and spear;
And oft as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!
And till great Snowden's rocks grow
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of Gelert's Grave.
THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL, AND THE
GRASSHOPPER'S FEAST.
COME, take up your hats, and away let us haste
To the butterfly's ball and the grasshopper's feast;
The trumpeter gadfly has summoned the crew,
And the revels are now only waiting for you.
On the smooth-shaven grass, by the side of a wood,
Beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood,
See the children of earth and the tenants of air
To an evening's amusement together repair.
And there came the beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the emmet, his friend, on his back;
And there came the gnat, and the dragon-fly too,
With all their relations-green, orange, and blue.
And there came the moth, with her plumage of down, And the hornet, with jacket of yellow and brown, Who with him, the wasp, his companion did bring, But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.
Then the sly little dormouse peeped out of his hole,
And led to the feast his blind cousin the mole;
And the snail, with her horns peeping out of her shell,
Came fatigued with the distance—the length of an ell.
A mushroom the table, and on it was spread
A water-dock leaf, which their tablecloth made;
The viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the bee brought the honey to sweeten the feast.
With steps most majestic the snail did advance,
And he promised the gazers a minuet to dance:
But they all laughed so loud, that he drew in his head,
And went in his own little chamber to bed.
Then as evening gave way to the shadows of night,
Their watchman, the glow-worm, came out with his light;
So home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no watchman is waiting for you or for me.
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame or private breath.
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
No ruin make oppressors great.
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
-SIR HENRY WOTTON.
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY
WHO WAS LEFT ON THE DESOLATE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANdez.
I AM monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute:
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech;
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untold,
Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
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