The Butterfly

How glorious now! how chang'd since yesterday, When on the ground a crawling worm it lay, Where ev'ry foot might tread its soul away.— Who rais'd it thence? and bid it range the skies? Gave its rich plumage—and its brilliant dies? 'Twas God—its God and thine—O man!—and he, In this thy fellow creature, lets thee see The wond'rous change that is ordain'd for thee. Thou too shalt leave thy reptile form behind, And mount the skies, a pure etherial mind, There range among the stars, all bright and unconfin'd.