O'er the deep! o'er the deep!

IN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,
The spectral owl doth dwell;
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,

But at dusk he 's abroad and well!
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;
All mock him outright by day;

fish sleep,

The boldest will shrink away!

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl!

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom;
And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom;
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still;

But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill !

O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl,
Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl!

Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight!
The owl hath his share of good :

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride;

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside!

So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing, hol for the reign of the horned owl!
We know not alway

Who are kings by day,

But the king of the night is the bold brown owl!
BRYAN W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

TO THE HUMBLEBEE.

BURLY, dozing humblebee!
Where thou art is clime for me;
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek,
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid zone !
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets, and bilberry bells,
Maple sap, and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among:
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher,
Seeing only what is fair,

Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,

A SOLILOQUY;

OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY insect! ever blest
With a more than mortal rest,
Rosy dews the leaves among,
Humble joys, and gentle song!
Wretched poet! ever curst
With a life of lives the worst,
Sad despondence, restless fears,
Endless jealousies and tears.

In the burning summer thou
Warblest on the verdant bough,
Meditating cheerful play,
Mindless of the piercing ray;
Scorched in Cupid's fervors, I
Ever weep and ever die.

Proud to gratify thy will,
Ready Nature waits thee still;
Balmy wines to thee she pours,
Weeping through the dewy flowers,
Rich as those by Hebe given
To the thirsty sons of heaven.
Yet, alas, we both agree.
Miserable thou like me!

Fach, alike, in youth rehearses
Gentle strains and tender verses;
Ever wandering far from home,
Mindless of the days to come
(Such as aged Winter brings
Trembling on his icy wings),
Both alike at last we die;
Thou art starved, and so am I !

WALTER HARTE.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill ;
"T is filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All the summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow,
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou

Dost neither age nor winter know;

But when thou 'st drunk and danced and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

(Voluptuous and wise withal,

Epicurean animal!)

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 some grassy hills.
JOHN KEATS.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND 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, Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth

To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,
In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.

THE CRICKET.

LEIGH HUNT.

LITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Whereso'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.

I own you 're a very ancient race,

TO A MOSQUITO.

And Greece and Babylon were amid;

You have tenanted many a royal dome,

And dwelt in the oldest pyramid;

In the ark was your floodless bed;
On the moonless night of Marathon
You crawled o'er the mighty dead ;

But still, though I reverence your ancestries,
I don't see why you should nibble my peas.

The meadows are yours, - the hedgerow and brook,
You may bathe in their dews at morn;
By the aged sea you may sound your shells,
On the mountains erect your horn;

The fruits and the flowers are your rightful dowers,
Then why- in the name of wonder-
Should my six pea-rows be the only cause
To excite your midnight plunder?

I have never disturbed your slender shells;
You have hung round my aged walk;
And each might have sat, till he died in his fat,
Beneath his own cabbage-stalk:

In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing, And tell'st how little our large veins should bleed, Would we but yield them freely in thy need;

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth;
Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, broad and

green,

The offspring of the gods, though born on earth.

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway, Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist!

And, fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

And think of your poor little snails at home,

Now orphans or emigrants all.

Utensils domestic and civil and social

I give you an evening to pack up;

What, do I hear thy slender voice complain? Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty's light, As if it brought the memory of pain: Thou art a wayward being, well, come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

To-morrow I'll hang each man Jack up. You'll think of my peas and your thievish tricks,

With tears of slime, when crossing the Styr.

thee sick,

And China bloom at best is sorry food; And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood"? Go, 't was a just reward that met thy crime, But shun the sacrilege another time.