XV. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. THE poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the grasshopper's-he takes the lead In summer luxury,—he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, 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. XVI. TO KOSCIUSKO. GOOD Kosciusko! thy great name alone Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. It tells me too, that on a happy day, When some good spirit walks upon the earth, Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore, Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away To where the great God lives for evermore. XVII. HAPPY is England! I could be content And half forget what world or worldling meant. Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, And float with them about the summer waters. 25 XVIII. THE HUMAN SEASONS. FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year; Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. XIX. ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER. COME hither, all sweet maidens soberly, |