THE ENTOMOLOGIST’S WEEKLY INTELLIGENCER. 
127 
To cleave the earth, and send one piercing 
dart 
Unto th’ originator’s ruthless heart ; 
Not only so, — ’tis not the feeble cry 
Of one poor creature’s frail humanity. 
But of a race, — for all my friends 
around. 
Who slept in calmness dormant in the 
ground 
(As when some dreadful nightmare’s hor- 
rors seize, 
Mixt with the murmurous sadness of the 
trees). 
Stung to the heart, updarted from their 
rest. 
And trembling said, “We are a race un- 
blest. 
Made but to furnish sport for all man- 
kind, 
While e’en in sleep we do their malice 
find ; 
They hunt us first on level and on hill. 
Encage us, pierce us, torture us, and 
kill; 
Lay us on boards, our gauzy wings out- 
spread. 
And force apart th’ antennae on the 
head ; 
Nor rest they here, — no burial do they 
give. 
And mummy-like for ever must we live. 
Exposed to every criticizing eye. 
Called some grand name — we call it 
mockery ; 
They keep our eggs in boxes — yes, and 
when 
We find ’gainst winter’s rage a cozy 
den 
They dig us up, and keep us till the 
time 
When in our beauty clothed we stand 
sublime; 
Aud e’en our children, ‘ pretty crawling 
things !’ 
They keep until the time when they’ll 
have wings. 
Thus systematically do they work us 
ill, 
And ever worse becomes their iron will. 
Whilst here we have their badness quite 
displayed, 
In these few words, ‘ Let diaries be 
made,’ 
^VTierein they’ll rule eleven columns’ 
space,* 
To note our little differences of race; 
Comparing notes, they’ll know what spot 
of land 
Will yield each family of our luckless 
band. 
Each nurturing plant — and here we fain 
must sigh — 
That nourishes our hapless progeny. 
Nor is this all, — they’ll learn the way 
they feed. 
Their size, their colour, habits and their 
breed ; 
Their shape, their lustre — and well may 
we fret — 
The details of their shield or corse- 
let. 
And of their anal segment, — well, what 
not?— 
Why, the right situation of each spot ! 
And more than this, they cannot let 
alone 
Their stomach, — no ! it may not be their 
own ; 
Then next, this delicate prescription 
Needs of ourselves a full description, 
When we emerge — and therefore when 
we die ! — 
Oh ! is not this refined barbarity?” 
Such, sir, the feelings I am bound to 
state. 
But all I say is quite inadequate ; 
This much, however, is my feeble 
cry, 
“ You add but insult unto injury ; 
You call us, ‘ creatures Lepidopterous ; 
Man’s name, sir, should be ‘Lethe — 
death to us ! ’ ” 
J. E. Ollivant. 
Llandaff. 
* Intell. No. 117, p. 101. 
