The butterfly, the bee,

And many an insect on the wing,
Full of the spirit of the spring,
Flew round and round in endless glee,
Alighting here, ascending there,
Ranging and revelling every where.

Now all the flowers were up and drest
In robes of rainbow-colour'd light;
The pale primroses look'd their best,
Peonies blush'd with all their might;
Dutch tulips from their beds
Flaunted their stately heads;

Auriculas, like belles and beaux,

Glittering with birthnight splendour rose ;

And polyanthuses display'd

The brilliance of their gold brocade :

Here hyacinths of heavenly blue

Shook their rich tresses to the morn,

While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue,
But coyly linger'd on the thorn,

Till their loved nightingale, who tarried long,
Should wake them into beauty with his song.
The violets were past their prime,

Yet their departing breath

Was sweeter, in the blast of death,

Than all the lavish fragrance of the time.

Amidst this gorgeous train,

Our truant star shone forth in vain ;

Though in a wreath of periwinkle,

Through whose fine gloom it strove to twinkle,

It seem'd no bigger to the view
Than the light spangle in a drop of dew.
-Astronomers may shake their polls,
And tell me,-every orb that rolls
Through heaven's sublime expanse
Is sun or world, whose speed and size
Confound the stretch of mortal eyes,
In Nature's mystic dance :
It may be so

For aught I know,

Or aught indeed that they can show ;
Yet till they prove what they aver,
From this plain truth I will not stir,
-A star's a star!-but when I think
Of sun or world, the star I sink;
Wherefore in verse, at least in mine,

Stars like themselves, in spite of fate, shall shine.

Now, to return (for we have wander❜d far,)

To what was nothing but a simple star;

-Where all was jollity around,

No fellowship the stranger found.
Those lowliest children of the earth,
That never leave their mother's lap,
Companions in their harmless mirth,
Were smiling, blushing, dancing there,
Feasting on dew, and light, and air,
And fearing no mishap,

Save from the hand of lady fair,

Who, on her wonted walk,
Pluck'd one and then another,

A sister or a brother,

From its elastic stalk;

Happy, no doubt, for one sharp pang, to die
On her sweet bosom, withering in her eye.

Thus all day long that star's hard lot,
While bliss and beauty ran to waste,
Was but to witness on the spot
Beauty and bliss it could not taste.
At length the sun went down and then
Its faded glory came again,

With brighter, bolder, purer light,

It kindled through the deepening night,
Till the green bower, so dim by day,
Glow'd like a fairy-palace with its beams;
In vain, for sleep on all the borders lay,
The flowers were laughing in the land of dreams.
Our star, in melancholy state,

Still sigh'd to find itself alone,
Neglected, cold, and desolate,
Unknowing and unknown.
Lifting at last an anxious eye,
It saw that circlet empty in the sky,
Where it was wont to roll

Within a hair-breadth of the pole :
In that same instant sore amazed,
On the strange blank all Nature gazed;
Travellers, bewilder'd for their guide,
In glens and forests lost their way;
And ships, on ocean's trackless tide,
Went fearfully astray.

The star, now wiser for its folly, knew
Its duty, dignity, and bliss, at home;
So up to heaven again it flew,

Resolved no more to roam.

One hint the humble bard may send
To her for whom these lines are penn'd:
-O may it be enough for her

To shine in her own character!
0 may she be content to grace,
On earth, in heaven, her proper place!

A WORD WITH MYSELF.

Stanzas written for "The Chimney-Sweeper's Friend,” a work edited by the Author, and dedicated, by permission, to His most gracious Majesty George IV.

I KNOW they scorn the climbing boy,
The gay, the selfish, and the proud,
I know his villanous employ

Is mockery with the thoughtless crowd.

So be it; brand with every name

Of burning infamy his art;

But let his country bear the shame,

And feel the iron at her heart.

I cannot coldly pass him by,

Stript, wounded, left by thieves half dead;
Nor see an infant Lazarus lie

At rich men's gates imploring bread.

A frame as sensitive as mine,

Limbs moulded in a kindred form,

A soul degraded, yet divine,
Endear me to my brother-worm.

He was my equal at his birth,

A naked, helpless, weeping child,
-And such are born to thrones on earth;
On such hath every mother smiled.

My equal he will be again,

Down in that cold oblivious gloom,
Where all the prostrate ranks of men
Crowd, without fellowship, the tomb.

My equal in the judgment-day,
He shall stand up before the throne,
When every veil is rent away,
And good and evil only known.

And is he not mine equal now?
Am I less fall'n from God and truth?
Though "wretch" be written on his brow,
And leprosy consume his youth.

If holy Nature yet have laws
Binding on man of woman born,
In her own court I'll plead his cause,
Arrest the doom or share the scorn.

Yes, let the scorn, that haunts his course,
Turn on me like a trodden snake,
And hiss, and sting me with remorse,
If I the fatherless forsake!