Upon a mortal pane.
Watts.
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 heath-bell shakes the sparkling dew,
He sees before his inexperienced eyes,
The brilliant glow-worm like a meteor shine
On the turf-bank, surprised, and pleased, he cries
“Star of the dewy grass! I make thee mine.”