When on some balmy-breathing night of Spring The happy child, to whom the world is new, Pursues the evening moth, of mealy wing, Or from the heath-bell beats the sparkling dew; He sees before his inexperienced eyes The brilliant Glow-worm, like a meteor, shine On the turf-bank; -- amazed, and pleased, he cries, "Star of the dewy grass! -- I make thee mine!" -- Then, ere he sleep, collects "the moisten'd" flower, And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold And dreams that Fairy-lamps illume his bower: Yet with the morning shudders to behold His lucid treasure, rayless as the dust! -- So turn the world's bright joys to cold and blank disgust. |