THE BUGS. THOU Source of song sublime! thou chiefest Whose sacred fountain of immortal fame 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 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; 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 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 By Jove's command dispersed, they wander wide O'er all the city.-Some their cells prepare While others, destined to an humbler fate, 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, Thus the lover pines, that reptile rude Should, 'mid the lilies of fair Chloe's breast, Implant the deep carnation, and enjoy 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; May steal ambrosial bliss; or may regale Had hid their numbers from the prying day. |