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. |