“When, at the departure of winter, the gilded dragon-fly begins to soar, often her many-coloured robe, often her wing, is torn by the thousand thorns of the verdant shrubs.

“Even so, O frail and joyous Youth, who, wandering hither and thither, in every direction, flyest wherever thy instinct calls thee—­even so thou dost often tear thy wings upon the thorns of pleasure.”

You must understand that pleasure is compared to a rose-bush, whose beautiful and fragrant flowers attract the insects, but whose thorns are dangerous to the visitors.  However, Victor Hugo does not use the word for rose-bush, for obvious reasons; nor does he qualify the plants which are said to tear the wings of the dragon-fly.  I need hardly tell you that the comparison would not hold good in reference to the attraction of flowers, because dragon-flies do not care in the least about flowers, and if they happen to tear their wings among thorn bushes, it is much more likely to be in their attempt to capture and devour other insects.  The merit of the poem is chiefly in its music and colour; as natural history it would not bear criticism.  The most beautiful modern French poem about insects, beautiful because of its classical perfection, is I think a sonnet by Heredia, entitled “Epigramme Funeraire”—­that is to say, “Inscription for a Tombstone.”  This is an exact imitation of Greek sentiment and expression, carefully studied after the poets of the anthology.  Several such Greek poems are extant, recounting how children mourned for pet insects which had died in spite of all their care.  The most celebrated one among these I quoted in a former lecture—­the poem about the little Greek girl Myro who made a tomb for her grasshopper and cried over it.  Heredia has very well copied the Greek feeling in this fine sonnet: 

  Ici git, Etranger, la verte sauterelle
  Que durant deux saisons nourrit la jeune Helle,
  Et dont l’aile vibrant sous le pied dentele. 
  Bruissait dans le pin, le cytise, ou l’airelle.

  Elle s’est tue, helas! la lyre naturelle,
  La muse des guerets, des sillons et du ble;
  De peur que son leger sommeil ne soit trouble,
  Ah, passe vite, ami, ne pese point sur elle.

  C’est la.  Blanche, au milieu d’une touffe de thym,
  Sa pierre funeraire est fraichement posee. 
  Que d’hommes n’ont pas eu ce supreme destin!

  Des larmes d’un enfant la tombe est arrosee,
  Et l’Aurore pieuse y fait chaque matin
  Une libation de gouttes de rosee.

“Stranger, here reposes the green grasshopper that the young girl Helle cared for during two seasons,—­the grasshopper whose wings, vibrating under the strokes of its serrated feet, used to resound in the pine, the trefoil and the whortleberry.

“She is silent now, alas! that natural lyre, muse of the unsown fields, of the furrows, and of the wheat.  Lest her light sleep should be disturbed, ah! pass quickly, friend! do not be heavy upon her.