The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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THE WASP'S REVENGE.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
THE WASP'S REVENGE.
A FABLE.
Beside a warbling, flow'ry grove,
By contemplation led, or love;
Lone in the Summer noon-tide ray,
Young beauteous Jeanie basking lay.
Her cheeks outvy'd the rose's bloom;
Her lips the cherry, breath, perfume;
In silk apparel, loose array'd,
She beauty's ev'ry charm display'd.
By contemplation led, or love;
Lone in the Summer noon-tide ray,
Young beauteous Jeanie basking lay.
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Her lips the cherry, breath, perfume;
In silk apparel, loose array'd,
She beauty's ev'ry charm display'd.
As thus the sultry hour she spent,
With Phœbus' beams unnerv'd and faint,
Dull Morpheus silently did creep,
And ere she knew lull'd her asleep.
With Phœbus' beams unnerv'd and faint,
Dull Morpheus silently did creep,
And ere she knew lull'd her asleep.
A roving wasp,—pert, gaudy squire,—
Struck with the fragrance of the air,
In raptur'd hurry, on her lip
The fancy'd rose-bud dew to sip,
Soft perch'd—and, ah! what bliss he drew,
Ne'er wasp suck'd such mellifluous dew;
With joy his little bag he stor'd,
And ev'ry glittering creek explor'd:
But, cruel fate! the waking maid,
Unknowing, snapt his hapless head
With deadly crash—“Revenge,” he cry'd,
Then deeply stung, and quiv'ring, dy'd.
Alarm'd, she started, with a bound,
And shook her robes—but, ah! the wound
Deep rooted, gall'd with aching smart,
And pining, pierc'd her to the heart.
She trembl'd, wept, but wept in vain:
Huge rose her lip—extreme the pain;
Till o'er her chin, with venom stung,
A monstrous sight it glist'ring hung.
Struck with the fragrance of the air,
In raptur'd hurry, on her lip
The fancy'd rose-bud dew to sip,
Soft perch'd—and, ah! what bliss he drew,
Ne'er wasp suck'd such mellifluous dew;
With joy his little bag he stor'd,
And ev'ry glittering creek explor'd:
But, cruel fate! the waking maid,
Unknowing, snapt his hapless head
With deadly crash—“Revenge,” he cry'd,
Then deeply stung, and quiv'ring, dy'd.
Alarm'd, she started, with a bound,
And shook her robes—but, ah! the wound
Deep rooted, gall'd with aching smart,
And pining, pierc'd her to the heart.
She trembl'd, wept, but wept in vain:
Huge rose her lip—extreme the pain;
Till o'er her chin, with venom stung,
A monstrous sight it glist'ring hung.
'Twas then, gay, beauteous Jean, no more;
Unfit to speak, she shriek'd, she tore
Her fluttering dress, and inward vow'd,
If e'er her lip could be renew'd,
No careless hour should see her laid,
Inglorious in the sun, or shade.
Unfit to speak, she shriek'd, she tore
Her fluttering dress, and inward vow'd,
If e'er her lip could be renew'd,
No careless hour should see her laid,
Inglorious in the sun, or shade.
Ye flustering beaus, and every rake
That read or list around,
By this wasp's fate example take,
Nor lag on unknown ground:
Else you may come to mourn too late,
And stretch your mouths, and roar;
And curse your bitter, pining fate
When ye can sting no more.
That read or list around,
By this wasp's fate example take,
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Else you may come to mourn too late,
And stretch your mouths, and roar;
And curse your bitter, pining fate
When ye can sting no more.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |