Classic Poem

In summer's prime, when bloom'd the rose,
With many a flow'r that beauteous grows;
Around each garden, field, and grove,
A Butterfly was seen to rove;
Industriously he seem'd employ'd,
But still as if he life enjoy'd,
A little Earth-worm crawling nigh,
Observ'd, and heav'd a secret sigh,
For much he wish'd like him to fly,
The sweets of morning dews to taste,
Or rest at eve on flow'rets plac'd.
Need it be said he sigh'd in vain!
Impossible his wish to gain.
Yet, much the proudest of his kind,
At Nature's law he thus repin'd:
" Here to vile earth my lot is fix'd,
" With dust am I for ever mix'd;
" Tho' while in thought I can aspire,
" I merit to be plac'd much higher:
" That painted butterfly, I see
" So gay, was once a worm like me:
" Then is it not as just that I
" Should soon become a butterfly?
" But when? alas! — I waste each hour;
" Time past we know beyond our pow'r.
" Mine's a short life — So now I'll try
" To climb — I presently may fly . "
He said, and eager held his way,
Where bloom'd a rose tree fresh and gay:
Then by degrees began to climb —
You'll think it was a work of time:
But full resolv'd, he still proceeds; —
To reach the top much labour needs,
Or even, with such feeble power;
To reach the footstalk of a flower.
Our tale were tedious, should we tell
How oft from leaf to leaf he fell;
For, always us'd to live so low,
Each ruffling breeze became his foe.
At length, by rising, bolder grown,
Our hero gains a rose full blown;
But now the vivid fragrant bloom
Nigh stifles him with rich perfume;
And here a gilded Bee he meets,
Collecting honey from its sweets,
Who seems a warrior bold in arms,
And fills his heart with dread alarms;
Not form'd (besides half dead with fear)
To draw the purer upper air;
Without one friendly hiding place,
(Indeed in very woeful case)
In vain he casts a look beneath —
Descending threatens toil and death.
The Bee perceiv'd — " Vain worm! " he cried,
" Long have I mark'd thy rising pride;
" These flow'rs can give no joy to thee ,
" This upper realm was made for me:
" No farther tempt a fate too nigh,
" Nor, form'd to crawl , e'er hope to fly . "
Scarce had he spoke, when rose a blast,
Which from his seat the stranger cast;
And as he fell, by many a thorn
He found his tender body torn;
His wonted haunts he sought in vain,
And dragg'd along his wounded train.
He cannot crawl who sought to rise,
But far from home in anguish dies.