TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.

(From the Literary Gazette.)

CREATURE of air and light,

Emblem of that which may not fade or die!
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,

To chase the south-wind through the sunny-sky?
What lures thee thus to stay

With silence and decay,

Fix'd on the wreck of dull mortality?

The thoughts once chamber'd there

Have gather'd up their treasures, and are gone!
Will the dust tell us where

They that have burst the prison-house have flown?
Rise, nursling of the day,

If thou wouldst trace their way,

Earth has no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanish'd bird

By the forsaken nest and broken shell?
Far thence he sings unheard,

Yet free and joyous midst the woods to dwell!
Thou of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn!

Thy hope calls heavenward from yon gloomy cell.

THE END.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET STREET.