LINES TO A MOSQUITO. 



The South wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, 

 And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay. 



And calm, afar, the city spires arose, 



Thence didst thou hear the distant hum of men, 

 And as its grateful odours met thy nose, 



Didst seem to smell thy native marsh again, 

 Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight, 

 Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. 



At length, thy pinions fluttered in Broadway, 

 Ah ! there were fairy steps, and white necks, kissed 



By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray 

 Shone through the snowy veils, like stars thro' mist, 



And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, 



Bloom'd the bright blood thro' the transparent skin. 



Oh ! these were sights to touch an anchorite ! 



What ! do I hear thy slender voice complain ? 

 Thou wailest, when I talk of Beauty's light, 



As if it brought the memory of pain. 

 Thou art a wayward being : well, come near, 

 And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear. 



What sayest thou, slanderer ? rouge makes thee sick ? 



And "China Bloom" at best, is sorry food? 

 And "Eowland's Kalydor," if laid on thick, 



Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood ! 

 Go 't was a just reward that met thy crime. 

 But shun the sacrilege another time. 



That bloom was made to look at, not to touch; 



To worship, not approach, that radiant white ; 

 And well might sudden vengeance light on such, 



As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite : 

 Thou shoulds't have gazed at distance and admired, 

 Murmured thy adoration and retired. 



