Their life all pleaſure, and their taſk all play,
All ſpring their age, and ſunſhine all their day.
Not ſo the child of ſorrow, wretched man,
His courſe with toil concludes, with pain began,
That his high deſtiny he might diſcern,
And in misfortune's ſchool this leſſon learn,
Pleaſure's the portion of th' inferior kind;
But glory, virtue, Heaven for Man deſign'd.
What atom-forms of inſect life appear!
And who can follow nature's pencil here?
Their wings with azure, green, and purple gloſs'd
Studded with colour'd eyes, with gems emboſs'd,
Inlaid with pearl, and mark'd with various ſtains
Of lively crimſon thro' their duſky veins.
Some ſhoot like living ſtars, athwart the night,
And ſcatter from their wings a vivid light,
To guide the Indian to his tawny loves,
As thro' the woods with cautious ſtep he moves.
