It hovers, flutters, resting ne'er!
But hush! it settles on the mead.
I have it safe now, I declare!
And when its form I closely view,
'Tis of a sad and dingy blue—
Such, Joy-Dissector, is thy case, indeed!
EXPLANATION OF AN ANTIQUE GEM.
A young fig-tree its form lifts high
Within a beauteous garden;
And see, a goat is sitting by,
As if he were its warden.
But, oh, Quirites, how one errs!
The tree is guarded badly;
For round the other side there whirrs
And hums a beetle madly.
The hero with his well-mailed coat
Nibbles the branches tall so;
A mighty longing feels the goat
Gently to cllmb up also.
And so, my friends, ere long ye see
The tree all leafless standing;
It looks a type of misery,
Help of the gods demanding.
Then listen, ye ingenuous youth,
Who hold wise saws respected:
From he-goat and from beetle's tooth
A tree should be protected!
