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If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
So painfully in the wood ?
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue
A beautiful creature,
SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.
FOUNDED UPON A
BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES
SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel !
Now, beneath the starry sky,
Short-lived likings may be bred
HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS
POR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.
“Who but hails the sight with pleasure
With great enterprise ;
The stormy skies !
Mark him, how his power he uses,
Clouds and utter glooms !
With uninjured plumes !”—
Stranger, 'tis no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern; No bold bird gone forth to forage
'Mid the tempest stern; But such mockery as the nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations, Like yon
TUFT OF FERN ;
Such it is; the aspiring creature
A dull helpless thing,
shall see how hollow Its endeavouring !"
ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM
OF A HARP,
THE WORK OF E.M.S.
Frowns are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimicry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.
A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation ! Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.
Even her own needle that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,
Like station could not merit.
And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A living lord of melody! How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?