THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY.

1802. - 1807.

ART thou the bird whom Man loves best,

The pious bird with the scarlet breast,

Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,

The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,

Under the branches of the tree:

ΙΟ

In and out he darts about;

Can this be the bird, to man so good,

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That after their bewildering,

Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue

A beautiful creature,

That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky

From flower to flower let him fly;

'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer Thou of our indoor sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness;
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together?
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own;
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

TO A BUTTERFLY.

1802. - 1807.

I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly, indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! not frozen seas
More motionless! and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers.
Here rest your wings when they are weary;

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ΙΟ

Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song,

And summer days when we were young,
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

1802. - 1807.

STAY near me do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in thee,

Historian of my infancy!

Float near me: do not yet depart !

Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,

My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey: with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

IO

Ere a leaf is on a bush,

In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun,

When we 've little warmth or none

Poets - vain men in their mood ! —
Travel with the multitude:

Never heed them; I aver

That they all are wanton wooers ;
But the thrifty cottager,

Who stirs little out of doors,

Joys to spy thee near her home:
Spring is coming, Thou art come

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