A delightful volume could be compiled on the literature of bird life, from the cuckoo, the earliest songster honoured by the poets, to Matthew Arnold’s canary. Passing on to animals, the Lake poets were interested to a noticeable degree in these humble companions. In Peter Bell, a poem that proved Wordsworth’s theories about poetry to be untenable, the ass is the hero, a veritable preacher, as in the days of Balaam. And Coleridge, greatly to the amusement of his critics, addressed some lines To a Young Ass, its Mother being tethered near it: How askingly its footsteps hither tend! It seems to say, And have I then one friend? Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn! I hail thee brother, spite of the fool’s scorn! And fain would take thee with me, in the dell Of peace and mild equality to dwell. Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride, And Laughter tickle Plenty’s ribless side! How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, And frisk about as lamb or kitten gay! Yea! and more musically sweet to me Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest The aching of pale fashion’s vacant breast. Wordsworth also wrote on The White Doe of Rylstone and The Pet Lamb. Southey paid his respects to The Pig and a Dancing Bear: Alas, poor Bruin! How he foots the pole, And waddles round it with unwieldy steps Swaying from side to side. The dancing master Hath had as profitless a pupil in him As when he tortured my poor toes To minuet grace, and made them move like clock-work In musical obedience. After sympathizing with his “piteous plight” he draws a moral for the advocates of the slave trade. He also addressed poems to The Bee and A Spider; the latter must be given entire, it is so strong and original in its comparisons: Spider! thou needst not run in fear about To shun my curious eyes; I won’t humanely crush thy bowels out Lest thou should eat the flies; Nor will I roast thee with a damned delight, Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, For there is One who might One day roast me. Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways Of Satan, sire of lies; Hell’s huge black spider, for mankind he lays His toils, as thou for flies. When Betty’s busy eye runs round the room, Woe to that nice geometry, if seen! But where is he whose broom The earth shall clean?