Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

All in a flutter of flatter'd delight,
And vain of his chance, but not trusting it quite,
The Butterfly dandled his dainty flight.
Half bashful, half bold, with a saucy swing
And a tremour shy of each delicate wing,
As, inwardly chuckling, he thought (poor thing!)

“What an adventure! a little alarming
Some might think it. I find it charming.
I the adored of an eagle? I
The chosen darling of Poesy?
Ah, if the others could only have heard
All that he said to me, wondrous bird!
Wherefore tremble? or doubt my bliss?
Surely 'tis all as it should be, this!
Hath an eagle chosen his mate in me
Beauty's the equal of Genius. Thee,
I, too, have dream'd of, singular spirit!
Worthy of thine is the trust I inherit
From many a bright presentiment
In the days gone by of this day's event.

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For never, in truth were they serious yet
Those light caprices I now regret
And recall with a blush. If in careless hours
I dallied a while with the frivolous flowers
That, down in the valley, as I went by,
Did their best to attract mine eye,
'Twas fancy merely and not true love.
O fortunate breeze that hath borne me above,
With thee to fly! and I care not where,
But with thee to fly O the rapture rare!
Welcome! 'Tis I: and I know thee: thou
Who hast taught me, also, myself to know!
To thy call I come, by mine own heart led.
It is I, it is thou, and so all is said!”

Then, to mimic the might of an eagle's flight,
(Poor fool, with his rose-leaf wings!)
Already astray, on the gust his gay
Bright atom of life he flings.
But the wild winds leap from their mountain keep
And, howling, hunt their prey.
Struck, torn, stript, tost, forlorn and lost,
He is wounded and whirl'd away.
With crumpled wings for awhile he clings
To the sharp rock's brambly brow,
Then is chased by the strain of the storm again,
Till he sinks in the valleys below.

And from bough to bough, and from tree to tree,
As bruised and broken he falls, and falls,

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That Eagle above him he still can see
Circling high o'er the mountain walls.
The flowers, the little ones, tender and kind
To their balmy bosoms receive him,
And, in slumber lull'd, from the howling wind
Warm shelter the lilacs weave him.