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The sun of the eve was warm and bright When the May-fly burst his shell,
And he wanton'd awhile in that fair light O'er the river's gentle swell ;
And the deepeuing tints of the crimson sky
Still gleam'd on the wings of the glad May-fly.
The colours of sunset pass'd away,
The crimson and yellow green, And the evening-star's first twinkling ray
lu the waveless stream was seen ; Till the deep repose of the stillest night Was bushing about his giddy flight.
The noon of the night is nearly come— There's a crescent in the sky ;—
The silence still hears the myriad hum Of the insect revelry.
The hum has ceas'd—the quiet wave
Is now the sportive May-fly's grave.
Oh ! thine was a blessed lot—to spring
In thy Justihood to air, And sail about on uutiring wing,
Through a world most rich and fair, To drop at once in thy watery bed, Like a leaf that the willow branch has shed