THE BUGS.

THOU Source of song sublime! thou chiefest
Muse!

Whose sacred fountain of immortal fame
Bedewed the flowerets culled for Homer's brow,
When he on Grecian plains the battles sung
Of frogs and mice: Do thou, thro' Fancy's

maze

Of sportive pastime, lead a lowly Muse

Her rites to join, while, with a faultering voice, She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown.

Nor

you, ye

lyre,

bards! who oft have struck the

And tuned it to the movement of the spheres
In harmony divine, reproach the lays;
Which, tho' they wind not thro' the starry
host

Of bright creation, or on earth delight

To haunt the murmuring cadence of the floods

A a

Thro' scenes where Nature, with a hand profuse,

Hath lavish strewed her gems of precious dye; Yet, in the small existence of a gnat,

Or tiny bug, doth she, with equal skill,

If not transcending, stamp her wonders there, Only disclosed to microscopic eye.

Or old the Dryads near Edina's walls Their mansions reared, and groves

rose

unnumbered

Of branching oak, spread beach, and lofty

pine;

Under whose shade, to shun the noontide blaze, Did Pan resort, with all his rural train

Of shepherds and of nymphs.-The Dryads pleased,

Would hail their sports, and summon Echo's

voice

To send her greetings thro' the waving woods;
But the rude ax, long brandished by the hand
Of daring innovation, shaved the lawns;
Then not a thicket or a copse remained
To sigh in concert with the breeze of eve.

Edina's mansions, with lignarian art,

Were piled and fronted.-Like an ark she seemed

To lie on mountain's top, with shapes replete,

Clean and unclean, that daily wander o'er
Her streets, that once were spacious, once were

gay.

To Jove the Dryads prayed, nor prayed in vain,

For vengeance on her sons.-At midnight drear Black showers descend, and teeming myriads

rise

Of bugs abhorrent, who by instinct steal
Thro' the putrescent and corrosive pores
Of sapless trees, that late in forest stood,
With all the majesty of summer crowned.

By Jove's command dispersed, they wander wide

O'er all the city.-Some their cells prepare
'Mid the rich trappings and the gay attire
Of state luxuriant, and are fond to press
The waving canopy's depending folds;

While others, destined to an humbler fate,
Seek shelter from the dwellings of the poor,
Plying their nightly suction to the bed
Of toiled mechanic, who, with folded arms,
Enjoys the comforts of a sleep so sound,
That not the alarming sting of glutting bug
To murderous deed can rouse his brawny arm
Upon the blood-swoln fiend, who basely steals
Life's genial current from his throbbing veins.

Happy were Grandeur, could she triumph

here,

And banish from her halls each misery,

Which she must brook in common with the

poor,

Who beg subsistence from her sparing hands. Then might the rich, to fell disease unknown, Indulge in fond excess, nor ever feel

The slowly-creeping hours of restless night, When shook with guilty horrors.-But the wind,

Whose fretful gusts of anger shake the world, Bears more destructive on the aspiring roofs Of dome and palace, than on cottage low, That meets Æolus with his gentler breath, When safely sheltered in the peaceful vale,

Is there a being breathes, howe'er so vile, Too pitiful for Envy?-She, with venomed tooth,

And grinning madness, frowns upon the bliss Of every species;-from the human form That spurns the earth, and bends his mental

eye

Thro' the profundity of space unknown,
Down to the crawling bug's detested race.

Thus the lover pines, that reptile rude Should, 'mid the lilies of fair Chloe's breast,

Implant the deep carnation, and enjoy
Those sweets which angel modesty hath veiled
From eyes profane.-Yet murmur not, ye few
Who gladly would be bugs for Chloe's sake!
For soon, alas! the fluctuating gales

Of earthly joy invert the happy scene.

The breath of Spring may, with her balmy power,

And warmth diffusive, give to Nature's face Her brightest colours ;-but how short the

space,

Till angry Eurus, from his petrid cave, Deform the year, and all these sweets annoy!

Even so befals it to this creeping race;
This envied commonwealth.-For they a while
On Chloe's bosom, alabaster fair,

May steal ambrosial bliss; or may regale
On the rich viands of luxurious blood,
Delighted and sufficed. But mark the end :
Lo! Whitsuntide appears, with gloomy train
Of growing desolation.-First, Upholsterer rude
Removes the waving drapery, where, for years,
A thriving colony of old and young

Had hid their numbers from the prying day.
Anon they fall, and gladly would retire
To safer ambush; but his ruthless foot,
Ah, cruel pressure! cracks their vital springs,
And with their deep-dyed scarlet smears the
floor.