The thrush is silent when I sing—
The linnet stays on balanced wing—
The oak doth hush its whispering leaves,
No more its web the spider weaves,
The rill and river cease their roar,
And all around confess my power,
E’en yonder passing thunder-cloud
Pauses to hear, though yet so proud!
While the grasshopper thus indulged its strain of self-conceit, a bolt of lightning fell upon an oak near by, and shattered its trunk into a thousand splinters. One of them struck the mullen-stalk, and the vain insect was crushed in an instant.