44 THE FABLES OF FLORA. 



Nor glows his eye with brighter glee, 

 When stealing near her orient breast. 



Than felt the fond enamoured bee. 

 When first the golden bloom he prest. 



Ah! pity much his youth untried. 

 His heart in beauty's magic spell! 



So never passion thee betide. 

 But where the genial virtues dwell, 



In vain he seeks those virtues there; 



No soul-suTstaining charms abound: 

 No honeyed sweetness to repair 



The languid waste of hfe is found. 



An aged bee, whose labours led 



Thro' those fair springs, and meads of gold. 

 His feeble wing, his drooping head 



Beheld, and pitied to behold. 



