And stretched like a veil o'er the skies.

Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire,--
Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown,--
Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire,
And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne.

He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound,
His head ached--his throne reeled and fell;
His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground,
And cried, "King Papilio, farewell!"

His fall chased the vision--the sleeper awoke,
The wonderful dream to expound;
The lightning's bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke,
And hail-stones were rattling around.

He'd slumbered so long, that now, over his head,
The tempest's artillery rolled;
The tulip was shattered--the whirl-blast had fled,
And borne off its crimson and gold.

'Tis said, for the fall and the pelting, combined
With suppressed ebullitions of pride.
This vain son of summer no balsam could find,
But he crept under covert and died!