That the chemist in vain with his still
Would labour the like to produce.

Then grudge not her temperate meals,

Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Since, stole she not all that she steals,

Neither honey nor wax would be left.


THE lowly flower said to the winged butterfly:

Leave not me.
How different are our fates! here a poor prisoner I,

Thou dost flee.
Yet we love one another, and from men we may

Live afar;
And we are like each other, for we both, they say,

Blossoms are.
'But thou art borne aloft; to earth, 0 sad despite !

Chained am I.
Alas! with my soft breath I would embalm thy flight

Through the sky.
Ah no! thou flee'st too far; thou all the countless flowers

Fliest to greet;
I stand alone, to see my shadow turn for hours

At my feet.
'Thou flee'st, returnest, flee'st, where bright like thee

Naught appears;
And so with each returning dawn thou findest me

All in tears.
O that with happy, faithful love we both may live,

Charmer mine!
Take thou, like me, root in the earth, or to me give

Wings like thine.'


ONE of my boyhood's dearest loves wert thou,

Melodious rover of the summer bowers ;
And never can I see or hear thee now,

Without a fond remembrance of the hours
When youth had gardened life for me with flowers !

Thou bringest to my mind the whitethorn bough,
The blooming heath, and foxglove of the fells;

And, strange though it appear,
Methinks in every hum of thine I hear
A breeze-born tinkling from my country's own blue-bells.

Most sweet and cheering memories are these

To one who loves so well his native landWho loves its mountains, rivulets, and trees,

With all the flowers that spring from Nature's hand,

And not at man's elaborate command.
Yet, ah ! they are no more than memories :
For I have dwelt perforce this many a year

Amid the city's gloom,
And only hear thy quick and joyous boom,
When thou my dusky window haply passest near.

No longer can I closely watch thy range

From fruit to flower, from flower to budding tree, Musing how lover-like thy course of change,

Yet from all ills of human passion free.

Though thou the summer's libertine may be,
And, having reft its sweetness, may estrange
Thyself thenceforward from the floweret's view,

No sting thou leavest behind
No trace of reckless waste with thee we find
And sweetly singest thou to earn thy honey-dew.

Oft have I marvelled at the faultless skill.

With which thou trackest out thy dwelling-cave, Winging thy way with seeming careless will

From mount to plain, o'er lake and winding wave :

The powers which God to earth's first creature gave, Seem far less fit their purpose to fulfil Than thy most wondrous instinct-if, indeed,

We should not think it shame, To designate by such ambiguous name The bright endowments which have been to thee decreed.

Hurtful, alas ! too oft are boyhood's loves,

The merle, encaged beneath the cottage eaves, The pecking sparrow, or the cooing doves,

The chattering daw, most dexterous of thieves,

That oftentimes the careful housewife grieves, And nimbly springs aloof when she reproves

Happier by far these pets of youth would be,

Had they been left alone,
To human care or carelessness unknown,
Roaming amid the woods, unheeded still and free!

Well, too, for thee, wert thou thus left, poor bee !

In chase of thee and thy congeners all,
How oft have I coursed o'er the fields with glee,

Despite all hindrances of hedge or wall

That in my onward way might chance to fall :
But, ah! though fervently admiring thee,
Thy piebald stripes, perchance, or golden hues,

Too often then did death
Bring sudden pause to thy harmonious breath,
And all for thy sweet bag, so rich with balmy dews !

Nor could the beauty of thy earthen home,

In a green bank beneath a fir-tree made, With its compact and over-arching dome,

Enveloping thy treasure-stores in shade

Nor the fine roadway, serpentinely laid-
Nor all thy lovely cups of honeyed comb-
Protect thee from the instruments of ill,

Who forced thy tiny cave,
And made a place of peace and joy a grave,
Killing thy race, though still admiring while they kill.

Vainly against the thoughtless plunderers

Didst thou direct thy poison-pointed sting; With branches from the super-pendent firs,

They beat thee down, and bruised thy little wing :

Thy queen, although a strangely gifted thing,
Saw ruin fall on all that once was hers,
Nor could the hand of fell destruction check :

Thy cells, of honey reft,
In one confused sod-mingled mass were left,
And thou, thy home and works, lay whelmed in one sad wreck.

Hence, though the wild flowers of my native hills

Before my mind at sight of thee arise,
And though my sense their fancied fragrance fills,

And their bright bloom delights my inner eyes,

Yet painful thoughts the while my breast chastise.
Oh, could poor man accomplish what he wills,
I would live o'er my days of youth again,

If but to cherish thee,
With kindness unalloyed, thou little busy bee,
And have thy memory unmixed with aught of pain !

But still to me thou art a thing of joy!

And the sweet hope is mine, that this new age Shall see thee saved from all such sore annoy.

Following a path alike benign and sage,

The Man doth now his faculties engage
In teaching early wisdom to the Boy.
Youth now shall love thee, and have no desire

To hunt, or hurt, or kill;
And thou henceforth shalt safely roam at will,
The happiest, merriest member of the summer choir !


TURN, turn thy hasty foot aside,

Nor crush that helpless worm :
The frame thy wayward looks deride

None but a God could form.
The common Lord of all that move,

From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of His boundless love

On that poor worm bestowed.
The sun, the moon, the stars he made,

To all his creatures free;
And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade

For worms as well as thee.
Let them enjoy their little day,

Their lowly bliss receive :
Oh, do not lightly take away

The life thou canst not give !


· ON A BUTTERFLY IN A CHURCH. ‘Hinder him not; he preacheth too.'.

- Jean Paul Richter. No, no; to hinder him would be a sin;

Let him come freely in !
He bears with him a silent eloquence

To charm each finer sense ;
A little living miracle he seems,

Come down on the sun's beams,
To preach of nature's gladness all day long !

Chief of the insect throng

Tiny patrician, on whose bannery wings

Are bright emblazonings !
My mind doth image thee a radiant flower,

Upflown in gladdest hour;
Or a small twinkling star from distant sphere

Let loose and fluttering here !
Whate'er thou art, thou need'st not fear annoy-

Welcome, thou little joy!
Yet why beneath this roof disport thyself,

Mysterious, wayward elf?
Proclaim thy mission ! Dost thou come to tell

Of spangled mead and dell-
Of the rich clover-beds, of humming bees,

And high o'er-arching trees ?
Thou seemest the very colours to have sipped

From wild flowers rosy lipped ;
Hast thou, then, left them pale ? and com'st thou here

In penitence and fear?
Or art thou—sacred thought !-a spirit come

To worship 'neath this dome
A soul still laden with an earthly love,

Finding no rest above ?
Or art thou but a wild inconstant thing,

Heedless where wends thy wing?

Ah, garish creature ! thou art now astray,

And fain wouldst be away!
Hadst thou a tongue, I know thou’dst ask where dwell

The flowers thou lov'st so well,
Whose little fragrant chalices are filled

With dew-drops fresh distilled ?
I know thou 'dst ask where shines the blessed sun,

And where the small brooks run ?
This is no place, no temple meet for thee :

Away—thou shouldst be free !
Go, like a child's thought, to the sunny air !

Be thou a preacher there !
Preach 'mid the congregation of the flowers,

Through summer's fleeting hours-
Thyself a living witness of His might
Who gave thee to the light!



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