I cannot say what thy Maker divine, When he composed thee an optic so bright, Making the skill of his finger to shine, Drew from those high upper regions of light.
Little bird, little bird, with thy spirit-like wings, Fleet as the air,--as the rainbow in hues, How can I tell but the Ruler of kings Formed them by those his blest ministers use?
Were not the fancy-like tints of thy plume, Was not the delicate down of thy breast, Caught from the flowers that in Paradise bloom,-- Plucked from the couch where the weary ones rest?
Little bird, little bird, with thy musical voice Tuned like a seraph's, deep, flowing, and clear, Was not thy melody, touching and choice, Taught by some angel, who visited here?
What, what, pretty fairy! so soon must thou go, Fleet as a vision, without a reply, Just like all other bright treasures below, Charming a moment, to change or to fly?
Beware, pretty Moth, so unsullied and white, Beware of the lamp's dazzling rays! It is not a drop of the sun! but a light That shines to allure little rovers by night; Away! there is death in the blaze.
O why didst thou come from thy covert of green, The vine, round my window so bright; And pop in to know what was here to be seen, Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen, And hazarding life by the flight?
The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pure That flame would most fatally singe: And nothing thy beautiful wings can insure From harm and from pain beyond mending or cure, If caught by their delicate fringe.
Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine; And breathe in the fresh evening air; Go, look at the stars, as they twinkle and shine; And cling to a leaf, or the tendrils that twine, My soft little eavesdropper, there!
And then, by a song I will sing, thou shalt know, Why thus I have lifted my arm To scare thee away from thy luminous foe. That threw out its beams, as a snare, and a show To tempt the unwary to harm.
For, I through the day, have been guarded by One, Who, greater and wiser than I, Has pitied my frailty; and forced me to shun Illusive temptations, where I might have run The peril of sporting to die.
'T was kindness from Him, to whose care I commend Myself through the darkness of night, That taught me so quick to come in, as a friend, Between thee and evil, thy life to defend; Pretty Moth, so unsullied and white.