The Liberated Prisoner

THE LIBERATED PRISONER.———BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.———I took a poor fly from a vase of ink,Upon my feathery quill-top, which I turn'dFor his relief,—as erst old Egypt's scribesRevers'd their stylus, for the benefitOf critical remark.—I thought at first,The luckless wight was dead. But lo! an armQuivering, did stretch itself, as if in actTo implore my pity.So,—with gentle hand,I laid him on a paper in the sun.There to revivify. With sudden spasm,Convulsion shook him sore,—and on his backHe lay discomforted. Close by his side,I strew'd some sugar,—and upon his breastBestow'd a particle,—thinking, perchance,The odor of his favorite alimentMight stimulate his palate, and uncoilHis folded trunk.But, strait, a troop of friendsGather'd around him; and I thought how sweetTheir sympathy must be, in the dark hourOf adverse fortune. Yet, behold!—they cameTo forage on his stores,—and with such zealDid help themselves,—that o'er his back they strodAnd trod upon his toes, and rudely turn'dAnd toss'd him o'er and o'er.Incens'd to markTheir want of kindness, and of courtesy,—I drove these venal people all away,—And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to excludeTheir coarse intrusions.Forthwith, they return'd,—And thro' his windows peer'd,—and round and roundGadding,—admission sought,—but all in vain.And then a mighty buzzing they set up,As if in envious spite to see him there,With such a pile of sugar at his lip,And they, themselves shut out. But he, alas!Like a sick king, in sumptuous palace inur'd,Unable was, to taste the luxury,For which they long'd and fretted. All at once,His head he raised, and thrusting forth a paw,Lean'd on a chrystal fragment of his hoardLike fallen Marius, 'mid the broken fanesOf ruin'd Carthage. Then, with slender voice,Piping and weak, he seem'd to moralizeAnd warn the young fly-audience not to plungeWith rash ambition in some Stygian pool.But ill at ease he was in hie discourse,And little gesture us'd, and slight regardWon from his bearers. Then, with pain he rose,And dragg'd his palsied body slow along,—Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map,Of coast, creek, harbors, and promontory,—All with as black a trail as poets sayThe serpent left in Eden.The sad estateOf my poor friend, attracted other guestsTo his glass-palace,—while my daughter's glanceMore quick than mine, detected eyes and wingsBlinded and pinioned by the glutinous dregsOf the dire ink-flood. A nice bath she madeIn a small, silver-spoon, and help'd him plunge,And cleanse his prison'd pores.Thence, he came forthMost marvellously chang'd,—stretching amainAll his six legs uncramp'd and flapping wideHis gauzy wings, appearing to approveHer medication, and to add his miteIn heart-felt praise of water and the bath.Then, quick, with light proboscis, he essayedThe sweet repast, that he had shunn'd before:—While in this renovation of the lifeOf the frail, helpless insect of a day,I felt a pleasure that could ne'er have sprungFrom taking it away.These mystic giftsOf breath, and motion, and the beating heart,Shall we not guard them for the humblest thing,From reverence to the Power that bade it runIts little race,—and love the fleeting lifeThat He bestow'd?