Classic Poem

TO M RS . —

From th' intricate, though gainful,
Thy wax-wrought knavery,
From sweetless and from painful,
Come forth, thou drowsy Bee.

Long season thou'st been rearing
Thy scientific bowers,
And o'er the future peering,
Forgat the present flowers.

Come, rouse thee from thy slumbers,
And shake thy trumpet-wing,
In small sonorous numbers,
Thou tiny poet sing.

O'er od'rous bells and blossoms
See others how they hie,
And pillow'd by sweet bosoms,
They murmur as they lie.

The coronet fresh o' the fountain,
The lily i' the vale,
Queen daisy on her mountain,
And primrose prink-the-dale;

The time's-scythe mocking myrtle,
The rose in blushes drest,
Like virgin without kirtle,
Laid in her lover's breast;

Sweet-pea'n pale-pink — Thou minion!
Ay, now thy breast's on fire,
Thou spread'st thy flimsy pinion,
And wak'st thy meadow lyre.

Thou fool! will nought content thee
Less than such flow'r divine?
Repent ye, ah! repent ye,
Whilst yet the pow'r is thine.

What though aspirant Zephyrs,
On most Hyblaean wing,
With rival breaths, sweet favours
Into her bosom bring;

Her beauteous head reclining
Upon majestic stem,
Ambitious pale, entwining
Her floral diadem;

Though odours amaranthine,
Rapt from empyreal bow'rs,
Her slender limbs might grant thine,
The queen o' graceful flow'rs!

Yet see! churl coyness gathers,
Back to thy cell again!
Her bosom is another's,
Thy song is all in vain.