Born with the spring, and with the roses dying, Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing, On the young flowret's opening bosom lying, Perfume and light and the blue air inhaling, Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing, And fading like a breath in boundless heaven,— Such is the butterfly's enchanted being; How like desire, to which no rest is given, Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure, Returns at last above to seek for purer pleasure.
FRAGMENT.
BY ISAAC CLASON.—1825.
He who has seen the red-forked lightnings flash From out some bleak and tempest-gathered cloud, And heard the thunder's simultaneous crash Bursting in peals terrifically loud; He who has marked the maddened ocean dash (Rob'd in its snow-white foam as in a shroud,) Its giant billows on the groaning shore, While death seem'd echoed in the deaf'ning roar;
He who has seen the wild tornado sweep (Its path destruction, and its progress death,) The silent bosom of the smiling deep With the black besom of its boisterous breath, Waking to strife the slumbering waves that leap In battling surges from their beds beneath, Yawning and swelling from their liquid caves Like buried giants from their restless graves:—
He who has gazed on sights and scenes like these, Hath look'd on nature in her maddest mood. But Nature's warfare passes by degrees; The thunder's voice is hush'd, however rude. The dying winds unclasp the raging seas, The scowling sky throws by her cloud-capt hood, The infant lightnings to their cradle creep, And the gaunt earthquake rocks herself to sleep.
But there are storms whose lightnings ever glare, Tempests whose thunders never cease to roll— The storms of love when madden'd to despair, The furious tempests of the jealous soul, That kamsin of the heart which few can bear, Which owns no limit and which knows no goal, Whose blast leaves joy a tomb, and hope a speck, Reason a blank, and happiness a wreck.