The Liberated Fly.

A Fly was struggling in a vase of ink, Which with my feathery quill-top I releas'd, As the rope saves the drowning mariner. I thought at first the luckless wight was dead, But mark'd a quivering of the slender limbs, And laid him on a paper in the sun, To renovate himself. With sudden spasm Convulsion shook him sore, and on his back Discomfited he lay. Then, by his side I strew'd some sugar, and upon his breast Arrang'd a particle, thinking, perchance, The odour of his favourite aliment Might stimulate the palate, and uncoil The folded trunk. But, straight, a troop of friends Gather'd around him, and I deem'd it kind To express their sympathy, in such dark hour Of adverse fortune. Yet, behold! they came To forage on his stores, and rudely turn'd And toss'd him o'er and o'er, to help themselves With more convenience. Quite incens'd to see Their utter want of pitying courtesy, I drove these venal people all away, And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to exclude Their coarse intrusion. Forthwith, they return'd, And through his palace peer'd, and, round and round Gadding, admission sought: yet all in vain. And so, a wondrous buzzing they set up, As if with envy mov'd to see him there, The untasted luxury at his very lips, For which they long'd so much. Then suddenly, The prisoner mov'd his head, and rose with pain, And dragg'd his palsied body slow along, Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map, Coast, islet, creek, and lithe promontory, Blank as the Stygian ink-pool, where he plung'd So foolishly. But a nice bath was made In a small silver spoon, from which he rose Most marvellously chang'd, stretching outright All his six legs uncramp'd, and, opening wide And shutting with delight his gauzy wings, Seem'd to applaud the cleansing properties Of pure cold water. Then with appetite, He took the food that he had loath'd before; And in this renovation of the life Of a poor noteless insect, was a joy, And sweet content, I never could have felt From taking it away. Still let us guard, For every harmless creature, God's good gifts Of breath and being; since each beating heart Doth hide some secret sense of happiness Which he who treadeth out can ne'er restore.