METAMORPHOSES. 75 



as I am not aware that it has appeared any where but in 

 a newspaper. 



THE BUTTERFLY'S BIRTH-DAY. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE BUTTERFLY' S BALL." 



THE shades of night were scarcely fled ; 



The air was mild, the winds were still ; 

 And slow the slanting sun-beams spread 



O'er wood and lawn, o'er heath and hill : 



From fleecy clouds of pearly hue 



Had dropt a short but balmy shower, 

 That hung like gems of morning dew 



On every tree and every flower : 



And from the Blackbird's mellow throat 



Was pour'd so loud and long a swell, 

 As echoed with responsive note 



From mountain side and shadowy dell : 



When bursting forth to life and light, 



The offspring of enraptured May, 

 The BUTTERFLY, on pinions bright, 



Launch'd in full splendour on the day. 



Unconscious of a mother's care, 



No infant wretchedness she knew ; 

 But as she felt the vernal air, 



At once to full perfection grew. 



Her slender form, ethereal light, 



Her velvet-textured wings infold ; 

 With all the rainbow's colours bright, 



And dropt with spots of burnish'd gold. 



Trembling with joy awhile she stood, 



And felt the sun's enlivening ray; 

 Drank from the skies the vital flood, 



And wonder'd at her plumage gay ! 



