Proud of its little day, enjoying The lavish sweets kind nature yields, In harmless sports each hour employing, Ranging the gardens, woods, and fields, A lovely butterfly extending Its grateful wing to Sol's warm beams, No dreaded danger saw impending, But basked secure in peaceful dreams. A wandering urchin view'd this treasure Of gaudy colours fine and gay; Thoughtless, consulting but his pleasure, He chas'd it through the livelong day. At last the young but sly dissembler Appear'd to follow other flies, Then turning, seiz'd the little trembler, Who, crush'd beneath his fingers, dies! Surpris'd, he sees the hasty ruin His reckless cruelty had wrought; The victim (which, so long pursuing, Scarce raised a wish or claimed a thought,) Now bids the tears of genuine sorrow O'er his repentant bosom flow! Yet -- he'll forget it ere the morrow, And deal to others equal woe! -- Thus the vain man, with subtle feigning, Pursues, o'ertakes poor woman's heart; But soon his hapless prize disdaining, She dies! -- the victim of his art. |