THE WEEKLY ENTOMOLOGIST. 
291 
All communications to be addressed 
to Mr. T. or Mr. J, B. Blackburn, 
The Yeivs, Woodford, N.E. No notice 
will be taken of anonymous communi- 
cations. 
Stanzas to a Moth. 
Oil ! where is thy nightly flight 
tending, 
Thou moth of the dusky wing, 
While the leafy boughs are bending, 
And the winds through the forest 
sinsf ? 
O 
Say, art thou some shadowy being 
Come forth from the quiet tomb, 
To its mystic silence fleeing 
When the morning’s glad sun- 
beams come ? 
Afraid of the hurry and rattle 
And roar of the busy town, 
Where the shouts of daily battle 
Every whisper of nature drown. 
But, at home, where the foaming 
river, 
Rolls down from the mountain’s 
breast, 
And its glancing spray drops quiver, 
As the moonbeams around them 
rest. 
Or, lov’st thou the mystery dreary, 
Of nights when no moonbeams 
shine, 
When the winds, like pris’ners 
weary 
Of their shackles, for freedom 
pine ? 
Dost thou haunt some dark spot that 
hideth, 
The crime of a life gone by, 
Where a mouldering form abideth, 
And a hand thal^can never die ? 
That points through the bright hours 
of morning, 
And all through the evening light, 
Prom the sun’s first early dawning, 
Till the fall of the gloomy night, 
At the place where the vengeful 
ashes, 
Beneath some protecting sod, 
Call aloud for the lightning flashes, 
And the thunderous peal of a god. 
All night dost thou mournfully wan- 
der, 
Unseen by created eye, 
’Neath the cold round moon that 
yonder, 
Swiftly glides through the fleecy 
sky? 
Dost thou weep bitter tears of sorrow, 
And moan as thou flittest round, 
To be scared by dawn to-morrow, 
To thy tomb in the dewy ground ? 
No ! methinks if a spirit in hiding, 
Beneath thy dull semblance clings, 
’Tis an angel form abiding, 
And that flutters beneath thy 
wings ; 
And the angel reveals all brightly, 
The grandeur of power divine. 
That can make e’en darkness nightly, 
Full of beauty and fair design. 
