No more let my dear Moth complain,
She can no Hippogryff obtain,
On which to take a daring flight,
To Helicon’s sequestered height.
Or to the far-famed Biforn Hill,
Whence flows Castalia’s classic rill.
Tho’ Magic’s glittering reign is o’er,
Why should my Moth the loss deplore.
Let her but take a lofty spring
Exulting on her emerald wing.
Its power shall bear her farther far,
Than Magic’s steeds to venture dare.
Awake, arise, for lovely May
In all her wonted beauty gay,
Now smiles with bright, propitious eyes,
On poets, and on butterflies;
And howsoe’er it wound our pride
We must allow they are allied.
But stop, our pride how can it wound
When in the list our Moth is found.
Yea sure her worth, and envied name
Shall give her tribe immortal fame,
And poets proudly kindred claim.
But ever let thy Stella shine,
The foremost in the friendly line.