The Caterpillar

No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now;Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,The azure and the orange that divideThy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,My garment has enfolded, and my armFelt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,Bending thy head in airy vacancy,This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemedTo ask protection; now, I cannot kill thee.Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race,And recent from the slaughter am I comeOf tribes and embryo nations: I have soughtWith sharpened eye and persecuting zeal,Where, folded in their silken webs they layThriving and happy; swept them from the treeAnd crushed whole families beneath my foot;Or, sudden, poured on their devoted headsThe vials of destruction.--This I've doneNor felt the touch of pity: but when thou,--A single wretch, escaped the general doom,Making me feel and clearly recogniseThine individual existence, life,And fellowship of sense with all that breathes,--Present'st thyself before me, I relent,And cannot hurt thy weakness.--So the stormOf horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields,And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on:The victor shouts triumphant; he enjoysThe roar of cannon and the clang of arms,And urges, by no soft relentings stopped,The work of death and carnage. Yet should one,A single sufferer from the field escaped,Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet,Lift his imploring eyes,-- the hero weeps;He is grown human, and capricious Pity,Which would not stir for thousands, melts for oneWith sympathy spontaneous:-- 'Tis not Virtue,Yet 'tis the weakness of a virtuous mind.