ORCHIS. 131 



It mounts not on obtrusive wing, 



Nor threats thy breast with angry sting : 



Admire, as close the insect hes. 



Its thin-wrought plume and honey'd thighs : 



Whilst on this flow'ret's velvet breast. 



It seems as though 'twere lull'd to rest, 



Nor might its fairy wings unfold, 



Enchain'd in aromatic gold. 



Think not to set the captive free — 



'Tis but the picture of a bee. 



Yet wonder not that Nature's power 

 Should paint an insect in a flower; 

 And stoop to means that bear in part 

 Resemblance to imperfect art — 

 Nature, who could that form inspire 

 With strength and swiftness, life and fire. 

 And bid it search each spicy vale 

 Where flowers their fragrant souls exhale; 

 And, labouring for the parent hive. 

 With murmurs make the wild alive. 



For when in Parian stone we trace 

 Some best-remember'd form or face; 

 Or see on radiant canvass rise 

 An imitative Paradise ; 

 And feel the warm affections glow, 

 Pleased at the pencil's mimic show; 



