TO THE BUTTERFLY.

Child of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight,

Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light;

And, where the flowers of paradise unfold,

Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold.

There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,

Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!

— Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept

On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept!

And such is man; soon from his cell of clay

To burst a seraph in the blaze of day!