Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet;
Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet!
I'd never languish for wealth, or for power;
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet:
I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.

O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,
I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings:
Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings.
Those, who have wealth, must be watchful and wary;
Power, alas! nought but misery brings!
I'd be a Butterfly sportive and airy,
Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings!

What, though you tell me each gay little rover
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day!
Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away.
Some in life's winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay—
I'd be a Butterfly; living, a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away!

II. OH! FOLLY CAUGHT ME, AS I SLEPT.

Oh! Folly caught me, as I slept,
Upon a lilac spray;
And spurned me, when his hand had swept
My golden down away.
Look at my bruised and broken wing,
'Twill bear me hence no more:
The flowers will bloom, the birds will sing,
But my summer-flight is o'er.
Alas! alas! how very brief
Is pleasure's brightest ray!
The sun, that warms the summer-leaf,
Will hasten its decay.

I was the Insect-Queen, and oft
On me admirers gazed;
And, as in sport I soar'd aloft,
My beauty has been praised.
But other triflers will be found
To grace the garden now;
And other wings will hover round
My own sweet lilac bough.
Alas! alas! how very brief
Is pleasure's brightest ray!
The sun, that warms the summer-leaf,
Will hasten its decay.

III. BUTTERFLY BEAU.

I'm a volatile thing, with an exquisite wing,
Sprinkled o'er with the tints of the rainbow;
All the Butterflies swarm to behold my sweet form,
Though the Grubs may all vote me a vain beau.
I my toilet go through, with my rose-water dew,
And each blossom contributes its essence;
Then all fragrance and grace, not a plume out of place,
I adorn the gay world with my presence—
In short, you must know,
I'm the Butterfly Beau.

At first I enchant a fair Sensitive plant,
Then I flirt with the Pink of perfection:
Then I seek a sweet Pea, and I whisper; “For thee
“I have long felt a fond predilection.”
A Lily I kiss, and exult in my bliss,
But I very soon search for a new lip;
And I pause in my flight to exclaim with delight,
“Oh! how dearly I love you, my Tulip!”
In short, you must know,
I'm the Butterfly Beau.

Thus for ever I rove, and the honey of love
From each delicate blossom I pilfer;
But though many I see pale and pining for me,
I know none that are worth growing ill for:
And though I must own, there are some that I've known,
Whose external attractions are splendid;
On myself I must doat, for in my pretty coat
All the tints of the garden are blended—
In short, you must know,
I'm the Butterfly Beau.

IV. ROUND MY OWN PRETTY ROSE.

Round my own pretty Rose I have hover'd all day;
I have seen its sweet leaves one by one fall away;
They are gone—they are gone—but I go not with them;
No, I linger to weep o'er the desolate stem.
They say—‘If I rove to the South, I shall meet
With hundreds of Roses more fair and more sweet:’
But my heart, when I'm tempted to wander, replies;
“Here my first love—my last love—my only love lies.”

When I sprang from the home where my plumage was nurst,
'Twas my own pretty Rose that attracted me first.
We have loved all the summer; and now that the chill
Of the winter comes o'er us, I'm true to thee still.
When the last leaf is wither'd, and falls to the earth,
The false one to southerly climes may fly forth:
But Truth cannot fly from his sorrow; he dies,
Where his first love—his last love—his only love lies.

V. MY OWN BLUE BELL! MY PRETTY BLUE BELL!

My own Blue Bell! my pretty Blue Bell!
I never will rove where Roses dwell:
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And oh! never doubt that my heart's true blue!
Though oft I own, I have foolishly flown
To peep at each bud that was newly blown;
I now have done with folly and fun,
For there's nothing like constancy under the sun,
My own Blue Bell! my pretty Blue Bell!
I never will rove where Roses dwell:
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And oh! never doubt that my heart's true blue!

Some Belles are Blues, invoking the muse,
And talking of vast intellectual views;
Their crow-quill's tip in the ink they dip,
And they prate with the lore of a learned lip:
Blue bells like these may be wise as they please,
But I love my own Blue Bell that bends in the breeze:
Pride passes her by—but she charms my eye
With a tint, that resembles the cloudless sky.
My own Blue Bell! my pretty Blue Bell!
I never will rove where Roses dwell:
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And oh! never doubt that my heart's true blue!

VI. LONG AGO, ERE MY WINGS WERE UNFURL'D.

Long ago, ere my wings were unfurl'd,
When I lay in a chrysalis state;
I was ugly, neglected, unfit for the world,
And despised by the gay and the great:
If I ventured to utter a word,
My voice in an instant was hush'd;
And, when trampled upon, it was voted absurd
In a Grub to resist being crush'd.

But my fortunes improved, and I rose
In the world on the wings of success;
And I very soon found I was follow'd by those,
Who once laugh'd at my manners and dress:
The blossoms of beauty, that spurn'd
Long ago so degrading a match,
Now when I perch'd near to them, smilingly turn'd;
For they thought me a pretty good catch.

This, I own, is a fanciful theme;
Yet 'tis not without meaning, you'll find:
For the loves of the Butterflies, small though they seem,
May resemble the loves of mankind—
The Grub, that is slighted to-day
As a suitor presuming and bold,
May perhaps be received in a different way,
When soaring on pinions of gold.

VII. THE BUTTERFLY WAS A GENTLEMAN.

The Butterfly was a gentleman,
Of no very good repute;
And he roved in the sunshine all day long,
In his scarlet and purple suit:
And he left his lady-wife at home
In her own secluded bower;
Whilst he, like a bachelor, flirted about
With a kiss for every flower.

His lady-wife was a poor glow-worm,
And seldom from home she'd stir;
She loved him better than all the world,
Though little he cared for her.
Unheeded she pass'd the day—she knew
Her lord was a rover then;
But, when night came on, she lighted her lamp
To guide him over the glen.

One night the wanderer homeward came,
But he saw not the glow-worm's ray:
Some wild-bird saw the neglected one,
And flew with her far away.
Then beware, ye Butterflies all, beware
If to you such a time should come:
Forsaken by wandering lights, you'll wish
You had cherish'd the lamp at home.

VIII. EACH BOWER HAS BEAUTY FOR ME.

Each bower has beauty for me,
There's a charm in each blossom that blows;
And, if absent the Lily should be,
I shall do very well with the Rose:
If Roses are not in the way,
I'll fly to a Hyacinth soon;
And I never will quarrel with May,
For wanting the Roses of June.
No! no! 'tis my pleasure to chase
Each pretty bud under the sun:
Why should I insult the whole race,
By a silly selection of one?

I love each exotic, that deigns
In a climate like this to expand;
And my heart its affection retains
For the bloom of my dear native land:
In summer's gay mansions I dwell,
And since summer so soon will be past,
Though I love her first bud very well,
I have love in reserve for her last.
Yes! yes! 'tis my pleasure to chase
Each pretty bud under the sun:
Why should I offend the whole race,
By a silly selection of one?

IX. ONE MORN I LEFT MY BOAT, TO STRAY.

One morn I left my boat, to stray
In yon island's dewy bowers;
I cull'd its sweets, and sail'd away
With my stolen store of flowers:
The west wind bore me o'er the flood,
My prize from the sun I shaded;
But, ere evening came, the fairest bud
In my lovely wreath was faded!

That eve, when nought but sea and sky
In the dreary prospect blended,
A little blue-wing'd Butterfly
Upon the deck descended;
It nestled near the Rose, its wing
Then lost its buoyant power;
And I saw the insect withering
Beside its own poor flower.