The Moth

Miss Flaxman

Poor little Moth, how low thou’rt laid!
Would thou hadst never thoughtless play’d
Round yon seducing light,
And flutter’d in its magic beam
Like one enchanted in a dream
Or vision of the night.

No more will’t thou poor hapless fly
Thy little airy pinions ply
In gay and sportive guise,
For scorch’d and sullied on the ground
Thy downy breast, thy wings are found
Poor Moth no more to rise!

Thus many a self-deluded Maid
By love’s soft brilliancy betray’d
Pursues the glitt’ring prize,
Finding too late, that she has prest
Destructive flame within her breast
Sinks like the Moth, and dies!