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That the chemist in vain with his still
Then grudge not her temperate meals,
Nor a benefit blame as a theft;
Neither honey nor wax would be left.
THE FLOWER AND THE BUTTERFLY.
Leave not me.
Thou dost flee.
Chained am I.
Through the sky.
Fliest to greet;
At my feet.
All in tears.
Wings like thine.'
TO THE WILD BE E.
Melodious rover of the summer bowers ;
Without a fond remembrance of the hours
Thou bringest to my mind the whitethorn bough,
And, strange though it appear,
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.
Amid the city's gloom,
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,
No sting thou leavest behind
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,
Well, too, for thee, wert thou thus left, poor bee !
In chase of thee and thy congeners all,
Despite all hindrances of hedge or wall
That in my onward way might chance to fall :
Too often then did death
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-
Who forced thy tiny cave,
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,
Thy cells, of honey reft,
Hence, though the wild flowers of my native hills
Before my mind at sight of thee arise,
And their bright bloom delights my inner eyes,
Yet painful thoughts the while my breast chastise.
If but to cherish thee,
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
To hunt, or hurt, or kill;
Nor crush that helpless worm :
None but a God could form.
From whom thy being flowed,
On that poor worm bestowed.
To all his creatures free;
For worms as well as thee.
Their lowly bliss receive :
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 !
To charm each finer sense ;
Come down on the sun's beams,
Chief of the insect throng
Tiny patrician, on whose bannery wings
Are bright emblazonings !
Upflown in gladdest hour;
Let loose and fluttering here !
Welcome, thou little joy!
Mysterious, wayward elf?
Of spangled mead and dell-
And high o'er-arching trees ?
From wild flowers rosy lipped ;
In penitence and fear?
To worship 'neath this dome
Finding no rest above ?
Heedless where wends thy wing?
Ah, garish creature ! thou art now astray,
And fain wouldst be away!
The flowers thou lov'st so well,
With dew-drops fresh distilled ?
And where the small brooks run ?
Away—thou shouldst be free !
Be thou a preacher there !
Through summer's fleeting hours-