At this solemn spot, where the green rushes wave,
Here sadly we bent o’er the Butterfly’s grave;
’Twas here we to beauty our obsequies paid,
And hallow’d the mound which her ashes have made.
And here shall the daisy and violet blow,
And the lily discover her bosom of snow;
While under the leaf, in the evenings of spring,
Still mourning her friend, shall the Grasshopper sing.
