The Butterfly and the Rose

She pluck'd a wild wood-rose, and fondly strove,
With pausing step and ever-anxious care,
To carry home her dainty treasure-trove,
A butterfly, perch'd on those petals fair;
Soon the gay creature flutter'd off again;
And then her girlish fingers dropp'd the flower:
Ah! little maid, when Love asserts his power,
This lesson, duly learnt, may save thee pain;
Why from the forest-rose thine hand unclasp,
Because the fickle insect would not stay?
Not all the tendance of thy sweet blue eye,
And tiptoe heed, secured the butterfly;
The flower, that needed but thy gentle grasp
To hold it, thou hast lightly thrown away!