58 TO THE MAY-FLY. 



Thy joyous gambols as I see, 

 May-fly, Fd almost wish to be 



Such thing of brief duration, 

 To sport, like thee, one little day, 

 Nor pass through years of slow decay, 



To reach life's termination. 



But ah ! what graceless wish breathed I ? 

 How little knowledge, brilliant Fly, 



Of thy existence shewing : 

 Still less of that I call my own, 

 How heedless of the precious boon, 



And Him to whom 'tis owing ! 



Bright insect, ere thy filmy wing, 

 Expanding on the breath of spring, 



Quivered with brief enjoyment ; 

 "l\vas thine for years immured to dwell 

 Within a lone and gloomy cell, 



To eat, thy sole employment. 



Within that cavern dark and dank, 

 Scooped in a streamlet's oozy bank, 



Its walls the water laving, 

 Thy form and nature incomplete, 

 Earth was thy home, and earth thy meat, 



So coarse and vile thy craving. 



