70 FABLES OF FLORA. 
Through those fair scenes we ’ll wander wild, 
And on yon russet mountains rest; 
Come, brother dear! come, Nature’s child! 
With all her simple virtues blest. 
The sun, far seen on distant towers, 
And clouding groves and peopled seas, 
And ruins pale of princely bowers, 
On Beachborough’s airy height shall please. 
N 
Nor lifeless, then, the lovely scene; 
The little laborer of the hive, 
From flower to flower, from green to green, 
Murmurs, and makes the wild alive. 
See, on that floweret’s velvet breast, 
How close the busy vagrant lies! 
His thin-wrought plume, his downy breast, 
The ambrosial gold that swells his thighs! 
Regardless whilst we wander near, 
Thrifty of time, his task he plies ; 
Or sees he no intruder near? 
Or rest in sleep his weary eyes? 
Perhaps his fragrant load may bind 
His limbs; we ’ll set the captive free. 
I sought the living bee to find, 
And found the picture of a bee. 
