The Liberated Prisoner

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

I took a poor fly from a vase of ink, Upon my feathery quill-top, which I turn'd For his relief,—as erst old Egypt's scribes Revers'd their stylus, for the benefit Of critical remark.—I thought at first, The luckless wight was dead. But lo! an arm Quivering, did stretch itself, as if in act To implore my pity. So,—with gentle hand, I laid him on a paper in the sun. There to revivify. With sudden spasm, Convulsion shook him sore,—and on his back He lay discomforted. Close by his side, I strew'd some sugar,—and upon his breast Bestow'd a particle,—thinking, perchance, The odor of his favorite aliment Might stimulate his palate, and uncoil His folded trunk. But, strait, a troop of friends Gather'd around him; and I thought how sweet Their sympathy must be, in the dark hour Of adverse fortune. Yet, behold!—they came To forage on his stores,—and with such zeal Did help themselves,—that o'er his back they strod And trod upon his toes, and rudely turn'd And toss'd him o'er and o'er. Incens'd to mark Their want of kindness, and of courtesy,— I drove these venal people all away,— And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to exclude Their coarse intrusions. Forthwith, they return'd,— And thro' his windows peer'd,—and round and round Gadding,—admission sought,—but all in vain. And then a mighty buzzing they set up, As if in envious spite to see him there, With such a pile of sugar at his lip, And they, themselves shut out. But he, alas! Like a sick king, in sumptuous palace inur'd, Unable was, to taste the luxury, For which they long'd and fretted. All at once, His head he raised, and thrusting forth a paw, Lean'd on a chrystal fragment of his hoard Like fallen Marius, 'mid the broken fanes Of ruin'd Carthage. Then, with slender voice, Piping and weak, he seem'd to moralize And warn the young fly-audience not to plunge With rash ambition in some Stygian pool. But ill at ease he was in hie discourse, And little gesture us'd, and slight regard Won from his bearers. Then, with pain he rose, And dragg'd his palsied body slow along,— Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map, Of coast, creek, harbors, and promontory,— All with as black a trail as poets say The serpent left in Eden. The sad estate Of my poor friend, attracted other guests To his glass-palace,—while my daughter's glance More quick than mine, detected eyes and wings Blinded and pinioned by the glutinous dregs Of the dire ink-flood. A nice bath she made In a small, silver-spoon, and help'd him plunge, And cleanse his prison'd pores. Thence, he came forth Most marvellously chang'd,—stretching amain All his six legs uncramp'd and flapping wide His gauzy wings, appearing to approve Her medication, and to add his mite In heart-felt praise of water and the bath. Then, quick, with light proboscis, he essayed The sweet repast, that he had shunn'd before:— While in this renovation of the life Of the frail, helpless insect of a day, I felt a pleasure that could ne'er have sprung From taking it away. These mystic gifts Of breath, and motion, and the beating heart, Shall we not guard them for the humblest thing, From reverence to the Power that bade it run Its little race,—and love the fleeting life That He bestow'd?