The White Moth.

Beware, pretty Moth, so unsullied and white,
Beware of the lamp's dazzling rays!
It is not a drop of the sun! but a light
That shines to allure little rovers by night;
Away! there is death in the blaze.

O why didst thou come from thy covert of green,
The vine, round my window so bright;
And pop in to know what was here to be seen,
Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen,
And hazardling life by the flight?

The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pure
That flame would most fatally singe:
And nothing thy beautiful wings can insure
From harm and from pain beyond mending or cure,
If caught by their delicate fringe.

Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine;
And breathe in the fresh evening air;
Go, look at the stars, as they twinkle and shine;
And cling to a leaf, or the tendrils that twine,
My soft little eavesdropper, there!

And then, by a song I will sing, thou shalt know,
Why thus I have lifted my arm
To scare thee away from thy luminous foe,
That threw out its beams, as a snare, and a show
To tempt the unwary to harm.

For, I through the day, have been guarded by One,
Who, greater and wiser than I,
Has pitied my frailty; and forced me to shun
Illusive temptations, where I might have run
The peril of sporting to die.

'T was kindness from Him, to whose care I commend
Myself through the darkness of night,
That taught me so quick to come in, as a friend,
Between thee and evil, thy life to defend;
Pretty Moth, so unsullied and white.