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thoughtless urchin, nor destroy
Yon insect's little hour of joy!
Yon lovely flutterer was born
To frolic thro' a summer morn,
To sip the dew from every flower
That blushes round Sophia's bower:
Now, on the Lily's snowy head
Behold its azure mantle spread;
Now, sudden starts the fickle thing,
And hovers on its burnished wing.
The beam, the breeze, the painted flower,
All bless the insect's rapid hour;
No memory grieves, no cares perplex,
No fear the transient rapture checks,
Its little task beneath the sky,
But to be happy, and to die.
Poor Elf! how like yon gaudy fly,
Thou sport'st beneath the Summer sky!
A lovely mirthful thing art thou,
With thornless heart and cloudless brow,
And little thou dost reck of care
As yon wild wavering child of air:
Yet thou may'st live with envious eye
To watch some idler of the sky.
And baffled by the gathering tear,
To trace its careless light career,
And yearn to emulate its flight
Through golden gleams and fields of light;
Some ruthless hand o'er thee may come,
And from thy beauty brush the bloom,
May crush thy mounting hopes, and bring
To earth thy spirits' soaring wing,
Even as thy hand would now destroy
Yon lovly insect's short-lived joy.
Yet shalt thou rise again to run
A glorious course beyond the sun,
While yon frail being's brief career,
Which here began, must finish here.
Crush the slight frame, and all is over,
Then pry'thee spare the pretty rover!