In yonder glass behold a drowning fly!
Its little feet how vainly does it ply!
Its cries we hear not, yet it loudly cries,
And gentle hearts can feel its agonies!
Poor helpless victim—and will no one save?
Will no one snatch thee from the threat’ning wave?
Is there no friendly hand—no helper nigh,
And must thou, little struggler—must thou die?
Thou shalt not, whilst this hand can set thee free,
Thou shalt not die—this hand shall rescue thee!
My finger’s tip shall prove a friendly shore,
There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o’er.
Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;
Go, join thy num’rous kindred in the air.
Away it flies; resumes its harmless play;
And lightly gambols in the golden ray.
Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed;
For you, perhaps, a nobler task’s decreed.
A young and sinking family to save:
To raise the infant from destruction’s wave!
To you, for help, the victims lift their eyes—
Oh! hear, for pity’s sake, their plaintive cries;
Ere long, unless some guardian interpose,
O’er their devoted heads the flood may close!
NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 63·07.
[250] Manchester Gazette.