And see, where so mournful the green rushes wave,
The Mole is preparing the Butterfly’s grave.
The Dormouse attended, but cold and forlorn;
And the Gnat slowly winded his shrill little horn;
And the Moth, who was griev’d for the loss of a sister,
Bent over the body, and silently kist her.
The corse was embalm’d, at the set of the sun,
And enclos’d in a case, which the Silk-worm had spun;
By the help of the Hornet, the coffin was laid,
On a bier, out of myrtle and jessamine made.