Poems on Several Occasions ... To which is added, the Plague of Wealth, Occasion'd By the Author's receiving fifty Pounds from his Excellency the Lord Carteret, for the foremention'd Ode. With several Poems not in the Dublin Edition. By Matthew Pilkington. Revised by the Reverend Dr. Swift |
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The BEE.
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| XXXIV. |
 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
27
The BEE.
In tenui Labor.
Virg.
To yonder newly-open'd Rose,
Whose Leaves the Morning's Blush disclose,
How swift that prudent Insect flies,
Who oft in Beds of Fragrance lies;
And now the dewy Drop devours
That soft impearls the blowing Flow'rs!
He now on Wings of Zephyrs rides,
Then, smooth in airy Circles glides,
And tastes whatever Nature yields
In fragrant Gardens, Groves or Fields.
Whose Leaves the Morning's Blush disclose,
How swift that prudent Insect flies,
Who oft in Beds of Fragrance lies;
And now the dewy Drop devours
That soft impearls the blowing Flow'rs!
He now on Wings of Zephyrs rides,
Then, smooth in airy Circles glides,
And tastes whatever Nature yields
In fragrant Gardens, Groves or Fields.
28
That Vi'let Bank—,how sweet it smells!
How long on ev'ry Bloom he dwells—!
The Primrose now he makes his Prey,
And steals the Cowslip's Sweets away.
How long on ev'ry Bloom he dwells—!
The Primrose now he makes his Prey,
And steals the Cowslip's Sweets away.
Cease—, artful Plund'rer—, spoil no more
These Blossoms of their balmy Store,
Which Nature taught them to produce,
For nobler Man's Delight and Use:
Nay—, rather Plunder—since we find
No Traces of the Theft behind.
These Blossoms of their balmy Store,
Which Nature taught them to produce,
For nobler Man's Delight and Use:
Nay—, rather Plunder—since we find
No Traces of the Theft behind.
But now, why nimbly do'st thou rise,
And lightly skim before my Eyes?
And why thy tender Pinions spread,
To hum, and wanton round my Head?
What swells thy little Heart to Rage?
Rash Fool! what prompts thee to engage
With Man, so far surpassing thee?
Why do'st thou whet thy Sting at Me?
When thou in Woodbine Bow'rs did'st play,
Or in the Rose embosom'd lay,
Or thro' the scented Alleys flew
Where Vi'lets breath'd, or Lillies grew,
Did I thy harmless Joys molest?
Did I with Terror fill thy Breast?
Did e'er I chace thee round the Bow'r
For Sweets, the Spoils of many a Flow'r?
And wilt thou, vain, ungrateful Thing!
At me direct thy poyson'd Sting?
Fly hence—to lonely Desarts fly—,
And wilt thou still persist—, then die—.
And now, thy silken Wings I seize,
These silken Wings no more shall teize,
Nor shall they, smooth thy Body bear
Along the Bosom of the Air;
But thus—, torn off—, thro' Tempests go,
The Sport of all the Winds that blow:
And next, thy Head shall cease to cleave
To thee, so indiscreetly brave:
The Sting, that wont to give us Pain,
I thus—, for ever render vain,
And thou a nameless Carcase art,
Despoil'd of ev'ry harmful Part.
And lightly skim before my Eyes?
29
To hum, and wanton round my Head?
What swells thy little Heart to Rage?
Rash Fool! what prompts thee to engage
With Man, so far surpassing thee?
Why do'st thou whet thy Sting at Me?
When thou in Woodbine Bow'rs did'st play,
Or in the Rose embosom'd lay,
Or thro' the scented Alleys flew
Where Vi'lets breath'd, or Lillies grew,
Did I thy harmless Joys molest?
Did I with Terror fill thy Breast?
Did e'er I chace thee round the Bow'r
For Sweets, the Spoils of many a Flow'r?
And wilt thou, vain, ungrateful Thing!
At me direct thy poyson'd Sting?
30
And wilt thou still persist—, then die—.
And now, thy silken Wings I seize,
These silken Wings no more shall teize,
Nor shall they, smooth thy Body bear
Along the Bosom of the Air;
But thus—, torn off—, thro' Tempests go,
The Sport of all the Winds that blow:
And next, thy Head shall cease to cleave
To thee, so indiscreetly brave:
The Sting, that wont to give us Pain,
I thus—, for ever render vain,
And thou a nameless Carcase art,
Despoil'd of ev'ry harmful Part.
31
'Tis done—, and now methinks I find
Compassion working in my Mind;
A tender Pity swells my Breast,
Too late, alas! to thee exprest:
These Eyes which Death's cold Hand hath seal'd,
How dim they seem! with Darkness veil'd!
These Limbs, which knew to form so well,
With curious Art the waxen Cell,
And there reserve its Treasures rare,
That might with Hybla's Sweets compare,
Now stiff—, there piteous Object lie,
O Life! how swiftly dost thou fly!
Compassion working in my Mind;
A tender Pity swells my Breast,
Too late, alas! to thee exprest:
These Eyes which Death's cold Hand hath seal'd,
How dim they seem! with Darkness veil'd!
These Limbs, which knew to form so well,
With curious Art the waxen Cell,
And there reserve its Treasures rare,
That might with Hybla's Sweets compare,
Now stiff—, there piteous Object lie,
O Life! how swiftly dost thou fly!
A Moment since, and thou cou'dst rove
Thro' Orchard, Meadow, Lawn, or Grove,
Delighted in the Sunshine play,
And float along the lucid Ray;
Or skim the dimply Stream, and roam
Far distant from thy Straw-built Home;
Yet now thy little Spirit's fled,
And thou art number'd with the Dead;
Alas! how small a Space supplies
The Insect, and the King that dies!
Thro' Orchard, Meadow, Lawn, or Grove,
32
And float along the lucid Ray;
Or skim the dimply Stream, and roam
Far distant from thy Straw-built Home;
Yet now thy little Spirit's fled,
And thou art number'd with the Dead;
Alas! how small a Space supplies
The Insect, and the King that dies!
By so severe, so hard a Fate,
Was Pompey stripp'd of all his State,
Like thee a headless Corse was made,
No Sigh, no Tear, no Honour paid.
Was Pompey stripp'd of all his State,
Like thee a headless Corse was made,
No Sigh, no Tear, no Honour paid.
Forgive, ah gentle Shade, forgive
That Hand, by which you cease to live;
That Hand shall soon a Tomb prepare,
And place your injur'd Body there;
That Hand the sweetest Flow'rs shall bring,
The lov'liest Daughters of the Spring,
The Pancy gay, the Vi'let blue,
And Roses of celestial Hue,
Carnations sweet, of various dye,
And Tulips, form'd to please the Eye,
And ev'ry fragrant op'ning Bloom,
Shall breathe its Odours round thy Tomb:
And I, too conscious of my Crime,
Shall make thee live to future Time.
That Hand, by which you cease to live;
33
And place your injur'd Body there;
That Hand the sweetest Flow'rs shall bring,
The lov'liest Daughters of the Spring,
The Pancy gay, the Vi'let blue,
And Roses of celestial Hue,
Carnations sweet, of various dye,
And Tulips, form'd to please the Eye,
And ev'ry fragrant op'ning Bloom,
Shall breathe its Odours round thy Tomb:
And I, too conscious of my Crime,
Shall make thee live to future Time.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |