The butterfly, the bee, And many an insect on the wing, Flew round and round in endless glee, Now all the flowers were up and drest Dutch tulips from their beds Flaunted their stately heads; Auriculas, like belles and beaux, Glittering with birthnight splendour rose; And polyanthuses display'd The brilliance of their gold brocade : Here hyacinths of heavenly blue Shook their rich tresses to the morn, While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn, Till their loved nightingale, who tarried long, Should wake them into beauty with his song. The violets were past their prime, Yet their departing breath Was sweeter, in the blast of death, Than all the lavish fragrance of the time. Amidst this gorgeous train, Our truant star shone forth in vain ; Though in a wreath of periwinkle, Through whose fine gloom it strove to twinkle, It seem'd no bigger to the view Than the light spangle in a drop of dew. Astronomers may shake their polls, And tell me, every orb that rolls Through heaven's sublime expanse Is sun or world, whose speed and size Or aught indeed that they can show; A star's a star! but when I think Of sun or world, the star I sink; Wherefore in verse, at least in mine, Stars like themselves, in spite of fate, shall shine. Now, to return (for we have wander'd far,) To what was nothing but a simple star; Save from the hand of lady fair, Who, on her wonted walk, Pluck'd one and then another, A sister or a brother, From its elastic stalk; Happy, no doubt, for one sharp pang, to die Thus all day long that star's hard lot, Beauty and bliss it could not taste. At length the sun went down, and then With brighter, bolder, purer light, It kindled through the deepening night, In vain, for sleep on all the borders lay, The flowers were laughing in the land of dreams. Lifting at last an anxious eye, It saw that circlet empty in the sky, Within a hair-breadth of the pole : The star, now wiser for its folly, knew So up to heaven again it flew, Resolved no more to roam. |