PRELIiMIXAIty 



On the same subject : 

 BY Mrs. Robinson. 



Poor insect ! what a little day 



Of sunny bliss is thine ! 

 And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay, 



And bid'st them, spreading, shine. 



Thou humm'st thy short and busy tune, 



Unmindful of the blast; 

 And careless, while 'tis burning noon, 



How quick that noon be past. 



A siiow'r would lay thy beauty low, 



A dew of twilight be 

 The torrent of thy overthrow, 



Thy storm of destiny ! 



Then spread thy little shining wing, 



Hum on thy busy lay ! 

 For Man, like thee, has but his spring ; 



Like thine, it fades away. 



