THE CATERPILLAR. No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now; Depart in peace, thy little life is safe, For I have scanned thy form with curious eye, Thy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer, Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip, This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed To ask protection; now, I cannot kill thee. Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race, And recent from the slaughter am I come Of tribes and embryo nations: I have sought Thine individual existence, life, And fellowship of sense with all that breathes,— Present'st thyself before me, I relent, And cannot hurt thy weakness.-So the storm Of horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields, And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on : The victor shouts triumphant; he enjoys The roar of cannon and the clang of arms, The work of death and carnage. Yet should one, A single sufferer from the field escaped, He is grown human, and capricious Pity, ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. YES, Britain mourns, as with electric touch, In grief spontaneous, and hard hearts are moved, By Fate's impartial stroke; and pulpits sound And urge and dry the tear.-Yet one there is Of hearse, and blazoned arms, and long array 282 ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. Of sad funereal rites, nor the loud groans And deep-felt anguish of a husband's heart, Can move to mingle with this flood one tear: He wears the day. Yet is he near in blood, The And at his knees she fondled in the charm And grace spontaneous which alone belongs Nor deem him hard of heart; for awful, struck By Heaven's severest visitation, sad, Like a scathed oak amidst the forest trees, Lonely he stands ;-leaves bud, and shoot, and fall; He holds no sympathy with living nature Or time's incessant change. Then in this hour, While pensive thought is busy with the woes And restless change of poor humanity, Think then, O think of him, and breathe one prayer, From the full tide of sorrow spare one tear, For him who does not weep! |