FIREFLY
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live.
Wordsworth—Ode. IV. 53. (Knight's ed.)
FIREFLY
Before, beside us, and above
The firefly lights his lamp of love.
Bishop Heber—Tour Through Ceylon.
Is it where the flow'r of the orange blows,
And the fireflies dance thro' the myrtle boughs?
Mrs. Hemans—The Better Land.
And the fireflies, Wah-wah-taysee,
Waved their torches to mislead him.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Hiawatha.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 273
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>The fireflies o'er the meadow
In pulses come and, go.
| author = Lowell
| work = Midnight. St. 3.
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text =
Tiny Salmoneus of the air
His mimic bolts the firefly threw.
| author = Lowell
| work = The Lesson.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 273
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Now, motionless and dark, eluded search
Self-shrouded: and anon, starring the sky,
Rose like a shower of fire.
| author = Southey | work = Madoc. Pt. II. (Confounds the firefly with the lantern-fly.)
Many a night I saw the Pleiads rising thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid.
| author = Tennyson
| work = Locksley Hall. 9.
FISH
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Angling)
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?
The're no brought here without brave darin'
Buy my caller herrin', Ye little ken their worth.
Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?
O you may ca' them vulgar farin',
Wives and mithers maist despairin'
Ca' them lives o' men.
Caller Herrin'. Old Scotch Song. Credited to Lady Nairn. Claimed for Neil Gow, who probably only wrote the music.
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Scott)
"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting
to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's
treading on my tail!
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all
advance:
They are waiting on the shingle—will you come
and join the dance?"
Lewis Carroll—Song in Alice in Wonderland.
Here when the labouring fish does at the foot
arrive,
And finds that by his strength but vainly he
doth strive;
His tail takes in his teeth, and bending like a bow,
That's to the compass drawn, aloft himself doth
throw:
Then springing at his height, as doth a little
wand,
FISH
That, bended end to end, and flerted from the
hand,
Far off itself doth cast, so does the salmon vaut.
And if at first he fail, his second summersaut
He instantly assays and from his nimble ring,
Still yarking never leaves, until himself he fling
Above the streamful top of the surrounded heap.
DR&nas—Poly-Olbion. Sixth Song. L. 45.
O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights,
What is 't ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles?
How do ye vary your vile days and nights?
How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles
In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes and
bites,
And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles.
Leigh Hunt—Sonnets. The Fish, the Man,
and the Spirit.
Fishes that tipple in the deepe,
Know no such liberty.
Lovelace—To Allhea from Prison. St. 2.
Cut off my head, and singular I am,
Cut off my tail, and plural I appear;
Although my middle's left, there's nothing there!
What is my head cut off? A sounding sea;
What is my tail cut off? A rushing river;
And in their mingling depths P fearless play,
Parent of sweetest sounds, yet mute forever.
Macaulay—Enigma. On the Codfish.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic =
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = Ye monsters of the bubbling deep,
Your Maker's praises spout;
Up from the sands ye codlings peep,
And wag your tails about.
Cotton Mather—Hymn.
Our plenteous streams a various race supply,
The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,
The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd,
The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold,
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,
And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
| author = Pope
| work = Windsor Forest. L. 141.
'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards,
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames
affords.
| author = Pope
| work = Second Book of Horace. Satire n. L.
.
We have here other fish to fry.
Rabelais—Works. Bk. V. Ch. 12.
<poem>It's no fish ye're buying—it's men's lives.
Scott—The Antiquary. Ch. XI.
<poem>Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea.
Why, as men do a-land: the great ones eat up the little ones. Pericles. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 29.
{{Hoyt quote
| num = | text = <poem>Blue, darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.
Sovthey—Modoc in Wales. Pt. V. (Referring to dolphins.) Byron erroneously quotes this as referring to the sky.
| seealso = (See also Byron under {{sc|Sky)
