  Nothing, methinks, is to be seen On earth that does not overween. Doth not the hawk, from high, survey The fowls as destined for his prey? And do not CÆsars, and such things, Deem men were born to slave for kings? The crab, amidst the golden sands Of Tagus, or on pearl-strewn strands, Or in the coral-grove marine, Thinks hers each gem of ray serene. The snail, 'midst bordering pinks and roses, Where zephyrs fly and love reposes, Where Laura's cheek vies with the peaches, When Corydon one glance beseeches,— The snail regards both fruit and flower, And thanks God for the granted bower. And man, who, standing on some bluff, Regards the world with soul as tough,— The sun, the moon, the starry sphere, The harvests of the circling year, The mighty ocean, meadows trim, And deems they all are made for him. "How infinite," he says, "am I! How wondrous in capacity! Over creation to hold reign, The lord of pleasure and of pain——" "Hold hard, my hearty!" said a flea, Perched on his neck, beneath his lee. "I do not brag that all creation Is subject to the Flea-ite nation. I know that parasitic races, The Ticks and Lucies have their places; But the imperial race of Flea Is all surpassing—look at me. My concentrated vigour, grant, Then look at yon huge elephant; Look at my leap, at my proboscis, Then go and learn, 'ut tu te noscis,' That man was made with skin to bleed, That families of fleas may feed." |
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