Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Little Boy to the Cricket
THE LITTLE BOY TO THE CRICKET.
I have thee now! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to departing Summer;
And I 'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light,
Which kept me awake so long, last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
To a sleep so strange, that the dream I 'll tell.
Sounding thy lay to departing Summer;
And I 'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light,
Which kept me awake so long, last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
To a sleep so strange, that the dream I 'll tell.
Methought, on a flowery bank I lay,
By a beautiful stream; and watched the play
Of the sparkling waters, that fled so fast,
I could not count the waves that passed.
But I marked the things they were carrying by;
And a neat, little skiff first caught my eye.
'T was woven of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of leaves, borne down by the stream:
And the skiff had neither sail nor oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his out-stretched hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the queen of May.
And while he was going, I heard him sing,
"Sieze the garland of passing Spring!"
But I dared not reach—for the bank was steep;
And he bore it away to the far-off deep!
Then came a lady—her eye was bright—
She was young and fair; and her bark was light.
Its mast was a living tree, that spread
Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head;
And some of the fruits had just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
And some with the crimson streak were stained,
While others their size had not yet gained.
She said, as she passed—"Oh! who can insure
The fruits of Summer to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me, flowing,
Beyond recall, I 'm going! I 'm going!"
I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; and her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; her bark was fringed
With the tasseled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides—and the yellow leaves,
That covered the deck, concealed a throng
Of crickets,—I knew by their choral song.
At Autumn's feet lay the golden corn,
And her hands were raised to invert a horn,
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o'er.
She bade me seize on the fruit, that should last,
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past!
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!
Then, I looked on a sight that chilled my blood;
'T was a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen raft; while his shriveled hand
Had clinched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man's eye was sunk and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
And his beard with the gathering frost was white.
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
"Winter, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the seasons end.
But I trust from others, who 've gone before,
Thou 'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store;
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee,—for I shall be questioned there?"
I asked Mamma, as she o'er me bent,
What all this show of the seasons meant?
She said 't was a picture of life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!
I awoke—and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun with his beams my room had filled!
But I think, my cricket, I long shall keep
In mind, the dream of my morning sleep!
By a beautiful stream; and watched the play
Of the sparkling waters, that fled so fast,
I could not count the waves that passed.
But I marked the things they were carrying by;
And a neat, little skiff first caught my eye.
'T was woven of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of leaves, borne down by the stream:
And the skiff had neither sail nor oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his out-stretched hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the queen of May.
And while he was going, I heard him sing,
"Sieze the garland of passing Spring!"
But I dared not reach—for the bank was steep;
And he bore it away to the far-off deep!
Then came a lady—her eye was bright—
She was young and fair; and her bark was light.
Its mast was a living tree, that spread
Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head;
And some of the fruits had just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
And some with the crimson streak were stained,
While others their size had not yet gained.
She said, as she passed—"Oh! who can insure
The fruits of Summer to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me, flowing,
Beyond recall, I 'm going! I 'm going!"
I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; and her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; her bark was fringed
With the tasseled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides—and the yellow leaves,
That covered the deck, concealed a throng
Of crickets,—I knew by their choral song.
At Autumn's feet lay the golden corn,
And her hands were raised to invert a horn,
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o'er.
She bade me seize on the fruit, that should last,
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past!
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!
Then, I looked on a sight that chilled my blood;
'T was a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen raft; while his shriveled hand
Had clinched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man's eye was sunk and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
And his beard with the gathering frost was white.
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
"Winter, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the seasons end.
But I trust from others, who 've gone before,
Thou 'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store;
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee,—for I shall be questioned there?"
I asked Mamma, as she o'er me bent,
What all this show of the seasons meant?
She said 't was a picture of life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!
I awoke—and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun with his beams my room had filled!
But I think, my cricket, I long shall keep
In mind, the dream of my morning sleep!