The Youths Coronal | Page 3

in some
hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!
And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to
bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass--to the
painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!

=The Butterfly's Dream=
A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
A butterfly gaudy and gay;

And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,
The careless young
slumberer lay.
For the butterfly slept;--as such thoughtless ones will,
At ease, and
reclining on flowers;--
If ever they study, 'tis how they may kill
The
best of their mid-summer hours!
And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case
With indolent lovers
of change,
Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,
Give fancy
permission to range.
He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise,
The swarm from
a neighboring hive;
Which, having come out for their winter supplies,

Had made the whole garden alive.
He looked with disgust, as the proud often do,
On the diligent
movements of those,
Who, keeping both present and future in view,

Improve every hour as it goes.
As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro,
With anger the
butterfly swelled;
And called them mechanics--a rabble too low
To
come near the station he held.
"Away from my presence!" said he, in his sleep,
"Ye humble
plebeians! nor dare
Come here with your colorless winglets to sweep

The king of this brilliant parterre!"
He thought, at these words, that together they flew,
And, facing about,
made a stand;
And then, to a terrible army they grew,
And fenced
him on every hand.
Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes
Seemed spreading to
measureless size:
Their wings with a mighty expansion arose,
And

stretched like a veil o'er the skies.
Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,--
Their hum, to a
cannon-peal grown,--
Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire,
And,
he thought, hurled at him and his throne.
He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound,
His head
ached--his throne reeled and fell;
His enemy cheered, as he came to
the ground,
And cried, "King Papilio, farewell!"
His fall chased the vision--the sleeper awoke,
The wonderful dream
to expound;
The lightning's bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke,

And hail-stones were rattling around.
He'd slumbered so long, that now, over his head,
The tempest's
artillery rolled;
The tulip was shattered--the whirl-blast had fled,

And borne off its crimson and gold.
'Tis said, for the fall and the pelting, combined
With suppressed
ebullitions of pride.
This vain son of summer no balsam could find,

But he crept under covert and died!
=The Boy and the Cricket=
At length I have thee! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to
departing summer;
And I'll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And
carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs, and the
faded green
Of thy close-made coat, can all be seen.
For I long to
know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;--

To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light
Which kept me awake so long
last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the
crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell

In a sleep so strange, that the dream I'll tell.
Methought, on a flowery bank I lay,
By a beautiful stream; and

watched the play
Of the sparkling wavelets, that fled so fast,
I could
not number them as they passed.
But I marked the things which they
carried by;
And a neat little skiff first caught my eye.
'Twas woven
of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped
it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of
leaves, borne down the stream.
And the skiff had neither a sail nor
oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his outstretched
hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the Queen of May.

And while he was going, I heard him sing,
"O seize the garland of
passing Spring!"
But I dared not reach, for the bank was steep;
And
he bore it away, to the far off deep!
There came, then, a lady;--her eye was bright--
She was young and
fair, and her bark was light;
Its mast was a living tree, that spread

Its boughs for a sail, o'er the lady's head.
And some of its fruits had
just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
And some
with the crimson streak were stained;
While others their size had not
yet gained.
In passing she cried, "Oh! who can insure
The fruits of
Summer to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me flowing,

Beyond recall, I'm going! I'm going!"
I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be
Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; while her cheek was
tinged
With a deeper brown; and her bark was fringed
With the
tasselled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides; and the
yellow leaves,
That had covered the deck concealed a throng
Of
Crickets!--I knew by their choral song.
And at Autumn's feet lay the