Classic Poem

A MOTH that play'd in ev'ning's beam,
At setting sun flew o'er a stream;
Where with a fix'd regard she ey'd
A Water-fly that skimm'd the tide.
" Born but to perish! Foolish thing,
" To thee what thought can comfort " bring?
" Yon sun, " said she, " That view'd thee gay,
" Oft sees at eve thy life decay.
" How canst thou then so briskly fly,
" Nor dream of dangers always nigh?
" I first from Phaebus life receive,
" And happy in his rays can live. "
She ceas'd: the sun had veil'd his light,
And length'ning shades proclaim'd the night.
From fields, and streams, and verdant groves,
From haunts which in the day she loves,
To losty dwellings she retires,
Where shine brisk lights and cheerful fires.
There, while the plenteous board is grac'd,
The candles are in order plac'd:
O'er these the Moth, in wanton play,
Flutters, rejoicing in the ray;
Still round and round in circles flies,
While spirit yet new strength supplies;
Forgets-her admonition grave,
Nor heeds the counsel that she gave;
Nearer and nearer still she moves,
And perishes by what she loves.
Thus both the fly and moth expire,
By water one, and one by fire.