Classic Poem

A Soft Caterpillar speaks: —

Once more the nightingale is heard
Each evening when the moon is rising,
But don't imagine that the bird
Is merely sentimentalising;
Do not suppose it is the Rose
Who fills her liquid strains with passion,
'Tis I who cause the nightingale
To sing in that ecstatic fashion.

The poet loves to hear her song,
Now soft and hushed, now clear and ringing,
Nor can I deem the poet wrong
In thinking highly of her singing.
But when he takes a pen and makes
A very moving poem on it,
It is to me the poet writes
(Or ought to write) his glowing sonnet.

I watch him pouring out his soul,
The rhymes are carefully selected,
And the performance on the whole
Is quite as good as I expected.
But when with tears some maiden hears
The poet's melancholy numbers,
It is for me the maiden weeps
(Or ought to weep) before she slumbers.

I — or my half-digested corse —
Called forth the fair Bianca's curses,
And I was the authentic source
Of Keats's misdirected verses.
The poets tell how Philomel
Still weeps for the decease of Itys,
But if the poor bird weeps at all
It must be me she really pities!

To me belongs the loud applause
That greets her voice from all the Muses,
For I am the efficient cause
Of every blessed note she uses.
And had the poets dreamed of this,
Shelley and Hugo, Scott and Schiller
Would all have kept their eulogies
For the nutritious caterpillar!