Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/200

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On Seeing a Butterfly Just Escaped from Its Chrysalis.
Why, lovely insect, dost thou stand, And wave thy quivering wing,As, half afraid thou went, aloft On fields of air to spring?
But now has reached thy slender form A sunbeam warm and bright,And instant thou hast upward sprung Towards the source of light.
Thus in the portals of the tomb The trembling soul shall stand,Till beams of faith and mercy point It to the promised land.
The land of peace! the land of love! Where sorrow is unknown,And songs of joy for ever float Around th' Almighty's throne!
Dew.
Sweet is the early dew Which gilds the mountain tops,And decks each plant and flower we view With pearly glittering drops.
But sweeter far the scene, On Zion's holy hill;When there the dew of youth is seen Its freshness to distil.
Sweet is the opening flower Which just begins to bloom,Which every day and every hour Fresh beauties will assume.
But sweeter that young heart, Where faith, and love, and peace,Blossom and bloom in every part, With sweet and varied grace.
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