LXXXIII.

“Pity it was to see the ardent sun
Scorching his helpless limbs—­it shone so warm;
For kindly shade or shelter he had none,
Nor mother’s gentle breast, come fair or storm. 
Meanwhile I bade my pitying mates transform
Like grasshoppers, and then, with shrilly cries,
All round the infant noisily we swarm,
Haply some passing rustic to advise—­
Whilst providential Heaven our care espies.”

LXXXIV.

“And sends full soon a tender-hearted hind,
Who, wond’ring at our loud unusual note,
Strays curiously aside, and so doth find
The orphan child laid in the grass remote,
And laps the foundling in his russet coat,
Who thence was nurtured in his kindly cot:—­
But how he prosper’d let proud London quote,
How wise, how rich, and how renown’d he got,
And chief of all her citizens, I wot.”

LXXXV.

“Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames,
Whose holds were fraught with costly merchandise,—­
Jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames,
And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies: 
Witness that Royal Bourse he bade arise,
The mart of merchants from the East and West: 
Whose slender summit, pointing to the skies,
Still bears, in token of his grateful breast,
The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest—­”

LXXXVI.

“The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest,
That all the summer, with a tuneful wing,
Makes merry chirpings in its grassy nest,
Inspirited with dew to leap and sing:—­
So let us also live, eternal King! 
Partakers of the green and pleasant earth:—­
Pity it is to slay the meanest thing,
That, like a mote, shines in the smile of mirth:—­
Enough there is of joy’s decrease and dearth!”

LXXXVII.

“Enough of pleasure, and delight, and beauty,
Perish’d and gone, and hasting to decay;—­
Enough to sadden even thee, whose duty
Or spite it is to havoc and to slay: 
Too many a lovely race razed quite away,
Hath left large gaps in life and human loving;—­
Here then begin thy cruel war to stay,
And spare fresh sighs, and tears, and groans, reproving
Thy desolating hand for our removing.”

LXXXVIII.

Now here I heard a shrill and sudden cry,
And, looking up, I saw the antic Puck
Grappling with Time, who clutch’d him like a fly,
Victim of his own sport,—­the jester’s luck! 
He, whilst his fellows grieved, poor wight, had stuck
His freakish gauds upon the Ancient’s brow,
And now his ear, and now his beard, would pluck;
Whereas the angry churl had snatched him now,
Crying, “Thou impish mischief, who art thou?”