Shall we the harmony destroy?

O, may it be our earnest care
To free our souls from every sin;
Then will each day be bright and fair,
For God's pure sunshine dwells within.


TO A BUTTERFLY.

[Those who are acquainted with this little poem, translated
from Herder, will perceive that a slight liberty has been
taken with the last two lines.]

Airy, lovely, heavenly thing!
Butterfly with quivering wing!
Hovering in thy transient hour
Over every bush and flower,
Feasting upon flowers and dew,
Thyself a brilliant blossom, too!

Who, with skilful fingers fine,
Purpled o'er those wings of thine?
Was it some sylph whose tender care
Spangled thy robes so fine and fair,
And wove them of the morning air?
I feel thy little throbbing heart;
Thou fear'st e'en now death's bitter smart.

Fly, little spirit, fly away!