MISCHIEVOUS JOY.
As a butterfly renewed,
When in life I breathed my last,
To the spots my flight I wing,
Scenes of heavenly rapture past,
Over meadows to the spring,
Round the hill, and through the wood.
Soon a tender pair I spy,
And I look down from my seat
On the beauteous maiden's head—
When embodied there I meet
All I lost as soon as dead,
Happy as before am I.
Him she clasps with silent smile,
And his mouth the hour improves,
Sent by kindly deities;
First from breast to mouth it roves,
Then from mouth to hands it flies,
And I round him sport the while.
And she sees me hov'ring near;
Trembling at her lover's rapture,
Up she springs—I fly away.
"Dearest! let's the insect capture!
Come! I long to make my prey
Yonder pretty little dear!"
NOVEMBER SONG.
To the great archer—not to him
To meet whom flies the sun,
And who is wont his features dim
