 | The Errors of Ecstasie |  |
THE BEE.
The Bee is chidden, for that in his providence of the merely useful things of life, he hath neglected the pleasures thereof and its sweeter enjoyments. Whilst his brothers of the hive are abroad in the fields, engaged in the dearer office of collecting the treasures o' flowers, he, the Solitary, remaineth locked within his cell, employed in the toilsome and ungrateful duty of extruction. He is advised to quit that dull life, nor be so wholly studious as to neglect pleasure. Inducements are mentioned, and at the name of his favourite flower, the pale Sweet-pea, his bosom riseth, and he goeth forth singing and very loving. But he is rebuked in that this flower is in possession of another, and exhorted rather to return to his former obscurity, than follow such unholy loves.
Thy wax-wrought knavery,
From sweetless and from painful,
Come forth, thou drowsy Bee.
Thy scientific bowers,
And o'er the future peering,
Forgat the present flowers.
And shake thy trumpet-wing,
In small, sonorous numbers,
Thou tiny poet sing.
See others how they hie,
And pillow'd by sweet bosoms,
They murmur as they lie.
The lily i' the vale,
Queen daisy on her mountain,
And primrose prink-the-dale;
The rose in blushes drest,
Like virgin without kirtle,
Laid in her lover's breast;
Ay, now thy breast's on fire,
Thou spread'st thy flimsy pinion,
And wak'st thy meadow lyre.
Less than such flow'r divine?
Repent ye, ah! repent ye,
Whilst yet the pow'r is thine.
On most Hyblæan wing,
With rival breaths, sweet favours
Into her bosom bring;
Upon majestic stem,
Ambitious pale, entwining
Her floral diadem;
Rapt from empyreal bow'rs,
Her slender limbs might grant thine,
The queen o' graceful flow'rs!
Back! to thy cell again!
Her bosom is another's,
Thy song is all in vain.
| The Errors of Ecstasie | |