To a Moth

Poor Creature! nay, I ’ll not say poor, Why, surely, thou art wondrous blest; Right royal is this sepulchre Fate gave thee for thy last long rest. See here—’t is but two lines above The spot that marks thy early tomb— Here Paris breathes his burning love To her who compassed Ilia’s doom. And here, upon a neighboring page, The great Achilles moans his friend, All careless, in his kingly rage, Of bane or curse the gods may send. Above, below thee, everywhere, Fierce Trojan strives with wily Greek; And mighty lords, with tawny hair, Deep words of war and wisdom speak. The high gods gaze upon thee here, Great warriors guard thy resting-place— Perchance thou see’st a burning tear Steal down Briseis’ home-turned face. Ay! rest content, for thou hast won A tomb that kings might wish in vain; About thee shines the all-seeing sun, And roars the many-sounding main.