The Worm by Thomas Smith of Dukinfield

The worm, my simple garden’s subtle foe,
I caught—it vainly struggled to be free,
And, shrinking from the fate-suspended blow,
Instinctive, seem’d to say, Oh! pity me!

Poor worm, I pity and reverse thy doom,
Seize, while thou cans’t, thy few, thy simple, jovs,
For both there is on earth’s broad surface room,
And age—life’s fleeting pleasures soon destroys.

And when of thee insidious man complains,
To Time thy sweet revenge securely trust;
Soon shalt thou riot on his sad remains,
When death consigns the proudest worm to dust.

I sigh’d—and, shrinking from the threat’ning storm,
Give me, I cry’d—compassion for a worm.

From: Smith, Thomas, Poems, 1797, Cowdroy and Boden: Manchester, p. 23.

Date: 1797

By: Thomas Smith of Dukinfield (1760-1836)

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