The Rose and the Butterfly

At day's early dawn a gay Butterfly spied
A budding young Rose, and he wish'd her his bride:
She blush'd when she heard him his passion declare,
And tenderly told him he need not despair.

Their faith was soon plighted, as lovers will do,
He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.

It had not been prudent to deal with delay,
The bloom of a rose passes quickly away,
And the pride of a butterfly dies in a day.

When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies,
From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;
Nor did he revisit his bride, till the sun
Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.

The Rose thus reproach'd him—"Already so cold!
How feign'd, O you false one! the passion you told!
Tis an age since you left me:" she meant a few hours;
But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers:
"I saw when you gave the base violet a kiss:
How—how could you stoop to a meanness like this?
Shall a low, little wretch, whom we Roses despise,
Find favour, O love! in my Butterfly's eyes?
On Atulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,
Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:
Dull daffodils too, were with ardour address'd,
And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd."

The coxcomb was piqu'd, and reply'd with a sneer,
"That you're first to complain, I commend you, my dear,
But know, from your conduct my maxims I drew,
And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.

I saw the boy Zephyrus rifle your charms,
I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;

The honey-bee kiss'd you, you cannot disown,
You favour'd besides—O dishonour!—a drone;
Yet worse—'tis a crime that you must not deny,
Your sweets were made common, false Rose! to a fly.

MORAL .

This law, long ago, did Love's Providence make,
That every Coquet should be curs'd with a Rake.

A PASTORAL HYMN TO JANUS.

To Janus, gentle shepherds! raise a shrine:
His honours be divine!
And as to mighty Pan with homage bow:
 To him, the virgin troop shall tribute bring;
 Let him be hail'd like the green-liveried Spring,
Spite of the wint'ry storms that stain his brow.

The pride, the glowing pageantry of May,
Glides wantonly away:
But January, in his rough-spun vest,
 Boasts the full blessings that can never fade,
 He that gave birth to the illustrious maid,
Whose beauties make the British Monarch blest!

Could the soft Spring with all her sunny showers,
The frolic nurse of flowers!
Or flaunting Summer, flush'd in ripen'd pride,
 Could they produce a finish'd sweet so rare:
 Or from his golden stores, a gift so fair,
Say, has the fertile Autumn e'er supply'd?

Henceforward let the hoary month be gay
As the white-hawthorn'd May!
The laughing goddess of the Spring disown'd,
 Her rosy wreath shall on His brows appear,
 Old Janus as he leads, shall fill the year,
And the less fruitful Autumn be dethron'd.

Above the other months supremely blest,
Glad Janus stands confest!
He can behold with retrospective face
 The mighty blessings of the year gone by:
 Where, to connect a Monarch's nuptial tie,
Assembled every glory, every grace!

When he looks forward on the flattering year,
The golden hours appear:
As in the sacred reign of Saturn, fair:
 Britain shall prove from this propitious date,
 Her honours perfect, victories complete,
And boast the brightest hopes, a British Heir.