He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise,
  The swarm from a neighboring hive;
Which, having come out for their winter supplies,
  Had made the whole garden alive.

He looked with disgust, as the proud often do,
  On the diligent movements of those,
Who, keeping both present and future in view,
  Improve every hour as it goes.

As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro,
  With anger the butterfly swelled;
And called them mechanics—­a rabble too low
  To come near the station he held.

“Away from my presence!” said he, in his sleep,
  “Ye humble plebeians! nor dare
Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep
  The king of this brilliant parterre!”

He thought, at these words, that together they flew,
  And, facing about, made a stand;
And then, to a terrible army they grew,
  And fenced him on every hand.

Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes
  Seemed spreading to measureless size: 
Their wings with a mighty expansion arose,
  And stretched like a veil o’er the skies.

Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,—­
  Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown,—­
Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire,
  And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne.

He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound,
  His head ached—­his throne reeled and fell;
His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground,
  And cried, “King Papilio, farewell!”

His fall chased the vision—­the sleeper awoke,
  The wonderful dream to expound;
The lightning’s bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke,
  And hail-stones were rattling around.

He’d slumbered so long, that now, over his head,
  The tempest’s artillery rolled;
The tulip was shattered—­the whirl-blast had fled,
  And borne off its crimson and gold.

’Tis said, for the fall and the pelting, combined
  With suppressed ebullitions of pride. 
This vain son of summer no balsam could find,
  But he crept under covert and died!

=The Boy and the Cricket=

At length I have thee! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to departing summer;
And I’ll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs, and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat, can all be seen. 
For I long to know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;—­
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light
Which kept me awake so long last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
In a sleep so strange, that the dream I’ll tell.