The Butterfly

Bird of the moths ! that radiant wing
Hath borne thee from thine earthly lair ;
Thou revellest on the breath of spring,
A graceful shape of woven air !

The glories of the earth are thine,
The joyful breeze, the balmy sky ;
For thee the starry roses shine,
And violets in their valleys sigh.

Yet was the scene as soft and bright
When thou wert low in wormy rest :
The skies of summer gushed with light,
The blossoms breathed on Nature's breast.

But thou that gladness didst not share,
A cave restrained that shadowy form ;
In vain did fragrance fill the air,
Dew soften and the sunbeams warm.

Dull was thy day— a living death,
Till the great change in glory came,
And thou, a thing of life and breath,
Didst cleave the air with quivering frame !

My son ! my son ! read, mark, and learn
This parable of summer skies,
Until thy trusting spirit yearn,
Like the bright moth, to rush and rise.

Lo ! round and near, a mightier scene,
With hues that flesh may not behold !
There all things glow with loveliest mien,
And earthly forms have heavenly mould !

Oh ! for that place of paths divine,
By the freed soul in rapture trod ;
The upper air, the fields that shine,
For ever in the Light of God !