



THE POETRY OF 
THE ORCHIS. 
BY SNOW. 
Sgz, Delia, see this image bri ig 
Why starts my fair one at “the sigh 
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 wae velvet breast, 
It seems as though ’twere lull’ d to rest. 
Nor might its fairy wings unfold 
Enchain’d in aromatic eoldh 
Think not to set the captive free, 
Tis but the picture of a bee 
rht, 
To, 
ht 
? 

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 face; 

