Dramas :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nay, little dreamer, hear me too!
May I not dream as well as you?
I've visions also, I can tell ye.
Methought, that journeying towards Delhi,
High mounted on a camel's back,
(A hump-back'd, ewe-neck'd, eastern hack),
Exhausted, weary, thirsty, hot,
I 'lighted on a verdant spot,
Where as I sat to rest and muse,
Flowers spread their bosoms of all hues;
And lo! these various flowers among
Gay butterflies in bevies throng!
One little troop I chiefly note,
That in the soft airs idly float,
With gorgeous wings of velvet plume,
Wrought, one would swear, in Iris' loom,

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And by her pencil taught to glow
With tints prepared to deck her bow.
But now observe the strangest thing!
These butterflies of glorious wing
Seem'd still to float, with one consent,
From flow'r to flow'r, wherever went
A little yellow butterfly,
Of small regard to catch the eye;
Of such are seen the homely race
That England's lukewarm dog-days grace.
Now this fond, fickle, fluttering fly
Leads to a rose-bud blooming nigh,
And when to taste its sweets they think,
It beckons to the chequer'd pink;
Now round the woodbine shapes its flight,
But cannot fix on which t' alight:
Then flitting sideways towards the lily,
It spies the vulgar daffodilly,
Or wheeling with a pironette,
Sudden descries the violet;
Yet scarcely has the perfume caught
Ere orange flowers claim a thought,
Or gaudy tulips strike its fancy,
Or, “freakt with jet,” th' immortal pansy.
And now methought the evening hour
Stole on the scene, and every flower

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Profuse, a double perfume flung,
While dews upon the still air hung.
The blue-bells see the planet sink,
And hang their heads, while daisies wink,
And lapt convolvoluses sleep
Till on their lids again he peep.
'Twas now the little yellow thing
Began to droop the cheerless wing,
And labour in its giddy flight,
Clogg'd by the chilly damps of night.
The butterflies in insect tongue,
Now one and all, or said, or sung,
“Look, sisters! whither flies the Sun?
Ah! whither, ere our race be run?
Just now he gave us life and light,
Nor thought we of such things as Night,
And we have no provision made!
The dew will spoil my rich brocade.”
Cries one, “My golden spots look dim,
That in the sun's beam rival'd him!”
Another, “See, my crimson hue
And purple tints are turning blue!”
The thoughtless troop thus put to rout,
Marked an old bee that buzz'd about,
A plodding, bustling, busy soul,
Who still, en passant, something stole,

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Poking within their cups her nose,
Ere sleepy flowers their leaves could close.
Her bundling figure they deride,
With thighs like pockets on each side;
The sober bee their quizzing hears,
And thus she buzzes in their ears:
“To sport beneath a summer sun,
And still from sweet to sweet to run,
To aim at all, on none to dwell,
Is not to taste e'en pleasure well:
Learn from old mother Bee this truth:
Some toil may sweeten even youth.”
Haply this hum-drum, drowsy speech,
Like others fared that wisdom preach;
But such a buzzing round my head
Awoke me—in my own tent bed.

H. C. P. Feb. 15th, 1808.