Verses on a Butterfly

FAIR Child of Sun and Summer! we behold

With eager eyes thy wings bedropp'd with gold;

The purple spots that o'er thy mantle spread,

The sapphire's lively blue, the ruby's red,

Ten thousand various blended tints surprise,

Beyond the rainbow's hues or peacock's eyes:

Not Judah's king in eastern pomp array'd,

Whose charms allur'd from far the Sheban maid,

High on his glitt'ring throne, like you could shine

(Nature's completest miniature divine):

For thee the rose her balmy buds renews,

And silver lillies fill their cups with dews;

Flora for thee the laughing fields perfumes,

For thee Pomona sheds her choicest blooms,

Soft Zephyr wafts thee on his gentlest gales

O'er Hackwood's sunny hill and verdant vales;

For thee, gay queen of insects! do we rove

From walk to walk, from beauteous grove to grove;

And let the critics know, whose pedant pride

And awkward jests our sprightly sport deride:

That all who honours, fame, or wealth pursue,

Change but the name of things--they hunt for you.

Joseph Warton

Ode to a Lady on the Spring

LO! Spring, array'd in primrose-colour'd robe,

Fresh beauties sheds on each enliven'd scene,

With show'rs and sunshine cheers the smiling globe,

And mantles hill and vale in glowing green.

All nature feels her vital heat around,

The pregnant glebe now bursts with foodful grain,

With kindly warmth she opes the frozen ground,

And with new life informs the teeming plain.

She calls the fish from out their ouzy beds,

And animates the deep with genial love,

She bids the herds bound sportive o'er the meads,

And with glad songs awakes the joyous grove,

No more the glaring tiger roams for prey,

All-powerful love subdues his savage soul,

To find his spotted mate he darts away,

While gentler thoughts the thirst of blood controul.

But ah! while all is warmth and soft desire,

While all around Spring's cheerful spirit own,

You feel not, Amoret, her quickening fire,

To Spring's kind influence you a foe alone!

Joseph Warton

Ode to Music

QUEEN of every moving measure,

Sweetest source of purest pleasure,

Music; why thy powers employ

Only for the sons of joy?

Only for the smiling guests

At natal or at nuptial feasts?

Rather thy lenient numbers pour

On those whom secret griefs devour;

Bid be still the throbbing hearts

Of those, whom death, or absence parts,

And, with some softly whisper'd air,

Smooth the brow of dumb despair.

Joseph Warton