Where then art is Chime for me.
Let them fail for PortoRique,
Far-off heats through peas to feek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thon animated torridsout!
"How's my boy - my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother.
How's my boy-my boy?
Tell me of him and no other.
FINE humblebee, fine 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.
Flower-bells,
Honeyed cells:
These the tents
Which he frequents.
Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere,
Swimmer through the waves of air,
Voyager of light and noon,
Epicurean of June!
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within ear-shot of thy hum;
All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And, with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And, infusing subtile heats,
Turns the sod to violets:
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot Midsummer's petted crone !
Sweet to me thy drowsy tune,
Telling 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;
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
But violets, and bilberry-bells,
Maple sap, and daffodels,
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,
Leave the chaff and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon.
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
|