16 
LO. A~ BOULTERELY. 
FROM HERDER. 
Lieut and lovely thing of sky, 
Butterfly ! 
Flutt’ring ever amid flowers, 
Fed on buds and dewy showers, 
(Flower thyself, or leaf with wings !) 
Say, what finger rosy-red 
Thy rich colours brings? 
Was ’t some sylph that o’er thee threw 
Each bright hue? 
Raised thee from morn’s fragrant mist,— 
Bade thee through thy day exist ? 
Ah, beneath my fingers prest, 
Palpitates thy tiny heart, 
E’en to death distrest. 
Fly away, poor soul! and be 
Gay and free! 
Thus, no more a worm of earth, 
I shall one day flutter forth ; 
And, like thee, a thing of air, 
Clothed in sweets and honeyed dews, 
Each sweet flow’ret share! 
