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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS, 
TIIE ORCHIS. 
BY SNOW. 
See, Delia, see this image bright, 
Why starts my fair one at the sight ? 
It mounts not on offensive wing, 
Nor threats thy breast with angry sting ; 
Admire, as close the insect lies, 
Its thin-wrought plume and honey’d thighs § 
Whilst on this floweret’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 spicv 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 fac©j 
