TO THE CRICKET
Reading edition
The chiming seas may clang; and Tubal Cain May clink his tinkling metals as he may; Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away; Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strain Till not a note of melody remain!— But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay, Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray, Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again: I shall not weary; there is purest worth In thy sweet prattle, since it sings the lone Heart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearth Of childish memories—no harsher tone Than we might listen to in gentlest mirth, Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth.