The White Moth

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 hazarding 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.

'Twas 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.