For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though, till his growing time be past,
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arrived, his work begins;

He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins!
Till circle upon circle wound
Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-enclos'd, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task:

And, though a worm, when he was lost,
Or caterpillar, at the most,

When next we see him, wings he wears,
And in papilio-pomp appears;
Becomes oviparous; supplies
With future worms and future flies,
The next ensuing year!—and dies!
Well were it for the world, if all
Who
creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter-liv'd than most he be,
Were useful in their kind as he.

ON A BUTTERFLY EMERGED FROM A CHRYSALIS' STATE.

ANON.

THOU coloured winglet, floating in the ray Of June's most gladsome hours, whose gor

geous vest

Was woven in the rainbow: little rest

Thou knowest, in the long bright summer

day;

Sipping the fragrant honied dew,-away Thon fly'st from flower to flower, and blest With buoyant thoughts, and spirits full of zest,

Thro' fields of ether lies thine airy way.

Yet wast thou once a reptile in the mire Unsightly having slumbered in thy cell, Transform'd and drunk with thoughts that bliss inspire,

Thou camest forth :-and I shall break the shell

Of dull mortality, and clad in fire, Burst on immortal wings, in fields of light to dwell

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Written on a Sabbath-morning.

FRY.

ON thy beds of clover playing,
Pretty insect, why so gay?
Why so blithely dress'd this morning?
'Tis to thee no sabbath day.

Giddy trifler of an hour!

Days to thee are all the same; Little care hast thou to count them, Mindful only of thy game.

And thou dost well-for never sorrow
Sat upon thy golden brow;
And never storm of earthly passion
Gather'd in thy breast of snow.

Thou hast not sigh'd at evening's closing, For hopes that left thee on its wing; Thou hast not wept at day's returning, With thought of what that day might bring.

Nor ever voice of truth neglected

Breath'd reproaches in thine ear, Nor secret pang of conscious error Spake of retribution near.

Play thy game thou spotless worm !

Stranger still to care and sorrow; Take thy meed of bliss to-day,

Thou wilt perish ere to-morrow.

Time has been, when like thee, thoughtless,
How unlike in all beside!
Lightly sped, and all uncounted,
Blithe I saw the moments glide.

Then the world was all of flowers,

Thornless as thy clover bedThen my folly ask'd no question, What might be when these were dead.

Had not mercy's sterner pity

Bent its chastening rod on me, Dancing still the round of pleasure, I had died-but not like thee.

Deeply stained with sin and folly, Talent wasted and misused,