TO THE 



BUTTERFLY. 



Ah, happy insect, free from care, 

 Thou sportest in the fluttering breeze; 



Wild as the fragrant mountain air, 

 And playful as the waving trees. 



When morning glimmers in the east, 

 Thou wander'st o'er the dewy ground, 



To sip the wild thyme's honey'd feast, 



Whose sweet breath scatters perfume round. 



At noon thou suck'st the thistly mead, 

 Where, with companions blythe and gay, 



Upon the nectar'd flowers to feed, 

 And sport the sultry hours away. 



And when the sun's last beam is fled, 

 And ev'ning sheds her pearly tears, 



Thou sinkest to thy blossom'd bed, 

 Slumb'ring again till morn appears. 



Ah! happy insect! once like thine 

 My heedless moments pass'd away; 



No lengthen'd sigh of grief was mine: 

 No tears then chill'd the glowing day. 



I wander'd carelessly along 



The wild wood paths and shady bowers ; 

 Gave to the murmuring winds my song, 



And gather'd wreaths of simple flowers. 



Yes: then, gay Flutterer! like thee 

 I danc'd where sportive Fancy led:— 



Such Joy no longer smiles for me, 

 E'en Hope's delusive dreams are fled. 



\ 



I 



S. E. 



T^Z-^^ZZ^^*. —* - d — the Country of which the BEOON,A is native - 







