Shall a slow Moth the silvery Prison leave,
That, when a Worm, she left her food to weave,
And slowly flutter in the dying day—
The Schoolboy’s Pleasure and the Swallow’s prey?
Or shall, with broader Wing and brighter dyes,
A soaring Creature from her Coffin rise, 830
Spread to the Morning Sun her glowing Hue
Hang o’er the honey’d flower and drink the nectar dew?”
Young Emely the pencil’d figure view’d, }
And knew the Image that would soon [protrude], }