Ode to a Fly

ay child of summer, who on burnish'd wings Unceasing ply'st thy brisk and mazy flight, Tasting with rapture all that Nature flings. Profusely round—still courting new delight,

Come, in thine airy dance, and freely sip The clear juice sparkling to my thirsty lip, And wheeling sportive o'er my tempting board, Cull the red nectarine for thy luscious meal, Or from the peach its pulp of fragrance steal, And calmly rifle autumn's choicest hoard. Then buzzing haste thee to the sunny field, Or drink the perfume that the moorlands yield, Or swiftly to some flowery vale repair, There jocund float adown the dimpling stream, And meet thy breth'ren in the setting beam, And bathe thy ebon sides in purple air.

While thoughtless sailing on the scented gale, Beware yon slimy threads, the woof of death, The speckled spider will empierce thy mail, And quench thy spirit with his tainted breath.

Oh may no tempest shade thy mirthful day, Nor glue those filmy wings with whelming rain! Oh may no feather'd foe molest thy way And fluttering bear thee to his infant train! May no fierce inmate of the curled brook, While o'er his head thou speed'st thy circling flight, Snatch thee unheeding to his watery nook, And ruthless force thee from the cheerful light.

Long, long may summer lengthen out thy year, And spare a life so bright with varied joy, A little life which glides uncheck'd by fear, Tho' chilling winter hovers to destroy.

How different man—he forms the lowering cloud Of gloomy care his happier hours to shroud, Fixing on doubtful ill his restless eye, How wiser far, like thee, with gladsome heart To catch the transports Nature's gifts impart And frolick careless of futurity.—