WHEN, on some balmy breathing night of Spring,
The happy child, to whom the world is new,
Pursues the evening moth, of mealy wing,
Or from the heathbell beats the sparkling 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' flow'r,
And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold,
And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bow'r:
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.