I'D BE A BUTTERFLY.
I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet! I'd never languish for wealth or for power; I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet: I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,
I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings: Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those, who have wealth, must be watchful and wary; Power, alas! nought but misery brings!
I'd be a Butterfly sportive and airy,
Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings!
What, though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day!
Sure it is better, when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay—
I'd be a Butterfly; living a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away!
AH! SIM PAPILIO.
АH! sim Papilio natus in flosculo,
Rosæ ubi liliaque et violæ halent;
Floribus advolans, avolans, osculo
Gemmulas tangens, quæ suave plent!
Sceptra et opes ego neutiquam postulo,
Nolo ego ad pedes qui se volutent :-
Ah! sim Papilio natus in flosculo,
Osculans gemmas quæ suave olent!
Magicam si possem virgam furari,
Alas has pulcras aptem mi, eheu !
Estivis actis diebus in aëre,
Rosa cubant Philomelæ cantu.
Opes quid afferunt?-curas, somnum rare :
Sceptra nil præter ærumnas, eheu!
Ah! sim Papilio, die volans aëre,
Rosa cubans Philomelæ cantu!
Quemque horum vagulum dicis horrore
Frigora autumni ferire suo:
Estas quando abiit, mallem ego mori,
Omni quod dulce est cadente pulcro.
Brumæ qui cupiunt captent labore
Gaudia, et moras breves trahuntoAh! sim Papilio: vivam in errore,
Concidamque omni cadente pulcro !
THE LOTOS EATERS.
BRANCHES they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each but whoso did receive of them
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake;
And music in his ears his beating heart did wake.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon, upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Father-land,
And wife and child and slave; but evermore
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, We will return no more;'—
And all at once they sang, Our island home
'Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.'
BANDY LEGS.
As I was a going to sell my eggs,
I met a man with bandy legs,
Bandy legs and crooked toes:
I tripped up his heels, and he fell on his nose.
QUINETIAM magica ramos de stirpe ferebant,
Floribus et fructu gravidos, et dulcia cuique
Dona dabant: quorum succo semel ore recepto,
Visa procul longis incassum anfractibus unda
Mugire increpitans, et non sua litora plangi:
Et tenuis, sociorum aliquis si forte locutus,
Stridere vox, Lemurum velut imbecilla querela :
Et licet insomnis, somno cogi inque pediri
Omnis; et auditis tremulo modulamine fibris,
Suave sub arguto geminari pectore murmur.
Consedere omnes ad flavæ litus arenæ,
In medio Solis radios Lunæque tuentes:
Et patriæ dulcis, sobolisque irrepit imago
Mentibus, et veteris procul oblectamina vitæ :
Tædia mox pelagus, remi quoque tædia visi
Ingerere et spuma sterilis longissimus æstus;
Atque aliquis tandem- non amplius ibimus,' inquit :
Continuoque omnes-longe mare clauditur ultra
'Insula, nostra domus: non amplius ibimus'—omnes.
C. M.
VARO QUOD ACCIDIT.
IBAM forte forum vendendis impiger ovis;
Obvius incurvis vir mihi fit pedibus,
Cruribus et yaris: mihi supplantare misellum
Sors erat; in nares incidit ille solo.
THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE.
WHEN first, beloved, in vanished hours,
The Blind Man sought thy hand to gain,
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers
New freshened by the summer's rain.
The beauty which made them rejoice
My darkened eyes might never see,
But well I knew thy gentle voice,
And that was all in all to me.
At length, as years rolled swiftly on,
They talked to me of Time's decay,
Of roses from thy soft cheek gone,
Of ebon tresses turned to grey.
I heard them; but I heeded not;
The withering change I could not see;
Thy voice still cheered my darkened lot,
And that was all in all to me.
And still, beloved, till life grows cold,
We'll wander 'neath the genial sky,
And only know that we are old
By counting happy hours gone by.
Thy cheek may lose its blushing hue,
Thy brow less beautiful may be;
But oh the voice, which first I knew,
Still keeps the same sweet tone to me!
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