Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851. Various

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      Now, flaming up the heavens, the potent sun

      Melts into limpid air the high-rais'd clouds,

      And morning fogs, that hover'd round the hills

      In party-color'd bands; till wide unveil'd

      The face of nature shines, from where earth seems

      Far stretch'd around, to meet the bending sphere.

      Half in a blush of clustering roses lost,

      Dew-dropping coolness to the shade retires,

      There, on the verdant turf, or flowery bed,

      By gelid founts and careless rills to muse;

      While tyrant heat, dispreading through the sky,

      With rapid sway, his burning influence darts

      On man, and beast, and herb, and tepid stream.

      Who can, unpitying, see the flowery race,

      Shed by the morn, their new-flush'd bloom resign,

      Before the parching beam? So fade the fair,

      When fevers revel through their azure veins.

      But one, the lofty follower of the sun,

      Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves,

      Drooping all night; and, when he warm returns,

      Points her enamor'd bosom to his ray.

      Home, from the morning task, the swain retreats;

      His flock before him stepping to the fold:

      While the full-udder'd mother lows around

      The cheerful cottage, then expecting food,

      The food of innocence and health! The daw,

      The rook, and magpie, to the gray-grown oaks

      (That the calm village in their verdant arms,

      Sheltering, embrace) direct their lazy flight;

      Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd,

      All the hot noon, till cooler hours arise.

      Faint, underneath, the household fowls convene;

      And, in a corner of the buzzing shade,

      The housedog, with the vacant grayhound, lies

      Outstretched and sleepy. In his slumbers one

      Attacks the nightly thief, and one exults

      O'er hill and dale; till, waken'd by the wasp,

      They, starting, snap. Nor shall the muse disdain

      To let the little noisy summer race

      Live in her lay, and flutter through her song,

      Not mean, though simple: to the sun allied,

      From him they draw their animating fire.

      Wak'd by his warmer ray, the reptile young

      Come wing'd abroad; by the light air upborne,

      Lighter, and full of soul. From every chink,

      And secret corner, where they slept away

      The wintry storms – or, rising from their tombs

      To higher life – by myriads, forth at once,

      Swarming they pour; of all the varied hues

      Their beauty-beaming parent can disclose.

      Ten thousand forms! ten thousand different tribes!

      People the blaze. To sunny waters some

      By fatal instinct fly; where, on the pool,

      They, sportive, wheel; or, sailing down the stream

      Are snatch'd immediate by the quick-ey'd trout,

      Or darting salmon. Through the greenwood glade

      Some love to stray; there lodg'd, amus'd, and fed

      In the fresh leaf. Luxurious, others make

      The meads their choice, and visit every flower,

      And every latent herb: for the sweet task,

      To propagate their kinds, and where to wrap,

      In what soft beds, their young, yet undisclos'd,

      Employs their tender care. Some to the house,

      The fold, and dairy, hungry, bend their flight;

      Sip round the pail, or taste the curdling cheese:

      Oft, inadvertent, from the milky stream

      They meet their fate; or, weltering in the bowl,

      With powerless wings around them wrapp'd, expire.

      But chief to heedless flies the window proves

      A constant death; where, gloomily retir'd,

      The villain spider lives, cunning and fierce,

      Mixture abhorr'd! Amid a mangled heap

      Of carcasses, in eager watch he sits,

      O'erlooking all his waving snares around.

      Near the dire cell the dreadless wanderer oft

      Passes, as oft the ruffian shows his front.

      The prey at last ensnar'd, he dreadful darts,

      With rapid glide, along the leaning line;

      And, fixing in the wretch his cruel fangs,

      Strikes backward, grimly pleas'd: the fluttering wing,

      And shriller sound, declare extreme distress

      And ask the helping hospitable hand.

      Resounds the living surface of the ground.

      Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hum,

      To him who muses through the woods at noon;

      Or drowsy shepherd, as he lies reclin'd,

      With half shut eyes, beneath the floating shade

      Of willows gray, close-crowding o'er the brook.

      Gradual, from these what numerous kinds descend,

      Evading even the microscopic eye!

      Full nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass

      Of animals, or atoms organiz'd,

      Waiting the vital breath, when Parent-Heaven

      Shall bid his spirit blow. The hoary fen,

      In putrid streams, emits the living cloud

      Of pestilence. Through the subterranean cells.

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