contents | previous | next The happy child, to whom the world is new, Pursues the evening moth, of mealy wing, Or from the heath-bell beats the sparking dew; He sees, before his inexperienc'd eyes, The brilliant Glow-worm, like a meteor, shine On the turf bank; amaz'd and pleas'd he cries "Star of the dewy grass! I make thee mine!"
Then, ere he sleep, collects the moisten'd flower,"
And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold, And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower: Yet with the morning, shudders to behold His lucid treasure, rayless as the dust; So turn the World's bright joys, to cold and blank disgust. |
