The ruins of a cot were near, I thought my dangers ended here; Deceitful thought! a playful boy (The cruel race in sport destroy) Whirl'd round the sling, the rapid stone Laid bare my pinion to the bone. Yet reach I living this abode, What signal mercies Heav'n bestow'd! Left in this grove to sigh alone, What fate has Turturella known ?" "More signal yet, by far," said she, "The mercies Heav'n bestow'd on me." "Alas! what woes," Columbo cry'd, "In this short absence hast thou try'd? What near escapes to equal mine? Amazing marks of love divine!" "The woes averted from my head Are those which thou hast felt," she said; "No near escapes 'twas mine to prove, What more amazing mark of love! In ease and safety more I gain

Than life to thee, preserv'd with pain, See then the mercies that I meant, Which Heav'n to give me, gave Content! Learn hence the gifts of Jove to prize, And, ere misfortunes teach, be wise."

HEN summer deckt each sylvan scene,

Wand sunshine smil'd along the green,

When groves allur'd with noon-tide shade,
And purling brooks refresh'd the glade;
An empty form of empty show,
A flutt'ring insect, call'd a Beau,
In gaudy colours rich and gay,

A mere papilio of the day,

Was seen around the fields to rove,

And haunt, by turns, the stream and grove :

A silver zone entwin'd his head,

His belly shone with lively red,

His wings were green, but studded o'er
With gold-embroider'd spots before.
Around him various insects came,
Of diff'rent colour, diff'rent name;

And, ting'd with every gorgeous dye,
Among the rest a Butterfly;

His wings are spread with wanton pride,
And beauty fades from all beside.

The Beau beholds, with envious eyes,
The living radiance as it flies :

"And shall," said he, "this worthless thing, That lives but on a summer's wing,

This flying worm, more gaudy shine,

And wear a dress more gay than mine?
Is this wise Nature's equal care
To deck a Butterfly so fair,

While man, her worthiest, greatest part,
Must wear the homely rags of art?"
Thus reason'd he, as reason beaux,
The subject of their logic clothes;
When thus the Butterfly reply'd,
With deeper tints by anger dy'd:
"Vain, trifling mortal! could'st thou boast
To prize what Nature prizes most
On man bestow'd, thou would'st not see
With envy aught she gives to me.
This painted vestment, all my store,
She gives, and I can claim no more—
But man, for greater ends design'd,
Should boast the beauties of the mind.
More bright than gold with wisdom shine,
And virtue's sacred charms be thine:
To rule the world by reason taught,
On dress disdain to waste a thought;
For he, whom folly bends so low,
Ambitious to be thought a beau,

Is studious only to be gay,

In toilet-arts consumes the day;
And, the long trifling labours o'er,
Takes wing, and bids the world adore;
Looks down with scorn on rival flies,
Himself less splendid and less wise;
With scorn, his scorn return'd again,
Proud insect! impotently vain!
The fool who thus by self is priz'd,
By others justly is despis'd."

She said, and flutter'd round on high,
Nor stay'd to hear the Beau's reply.

Came where th' industrious Bees had stor'd

In artful cells their luscious hoard;
O'erjoy'd they seiz'd with eager haste
Luxurious on the rich repast.

Alarm'd at this, the little crew

About their ears vindictive flew.
The beasts, unable to sustain

Th' unequal combat, quit the plain :
Half blind with rage, and mad with pain,
Their native shelter they regain;
There sit, and now discreeter grown,
Too late their rashness they bemoan;
And this by dear experience gain,
"That pleasure's ever bought with pain."
So when the gilded baits of vice
Are plac'd before our longing eyes,
With greedy haste we snatch our fill,
And swallow down the latent ill;
But when experience opes our eyes,
Away the fancied pleasure flies-
It flies, but oh! too late we find
It leaves a real sting behind.