Pride of the East, a brighter glow, Beyond our garden’s bloom, Bade her with heighten’d beauty blush, And scatter rich perfume.
Her rudely rushing through the air An angry HORNET ’spy’d; Vow’d to enjoy the heav’nly flow’r, In all her blooming pride.
Bold son of heat, with rudest haste, His course he strait address’d; To rifle all her charms in spite, And riot on her breast.
He search’d each leaf, each blossom wounds With rude unhallow’d rage; Yet nothing could his search explore, His passion to assuage.
The beauteous flow’r, though wildly rent, No sweetness would afford; But hurt by many a vengeful thorn, His rashness he deplor’d.
At length, thus baffled and deceiv’d, Enrag’d, he silence broke; And now of ev’ry hope bereft, He thus insulting spoke;
“Vain gaudy flow’r, they term thy breast “Engaging, bright, and fair; “Who seek thy bosom, ne’er shall find “Or joy or sweetness there.
“The Bee indeed, thy fav’rite, still “Says, Honey springs from thee; “Yet nought but trouble, care, and pain, “Hast thou bestow’d on me.
“Then boast no more thy beauteous form “That still excites desire; “Since _Thorns_ alone thou canst bestow, “To quench a lover’s fire.”
Then thus the Rose,—“Intruder vile! “Who thus would’st force employ; “Though arm’d with pow’r; know ’tis not thine “To taste substantial joy.
“The Bee, who sips each sweet that glows “In lawn or shady bow’r, “Tastes all the honey as he flies, “But never wounds the flow’r.
“Whilst thou, both impious and unwise, “Of all our tribes the scorn: “For ev’ry violated sweet “Shalt always meet a thorn.”
Rare plant, or flow’r, or nymph-like tree, With human sense endu’d; Why dost thou shrink beneath the touch, And bear but to be _view’d_?
Say does some Hamadryad chuse In that green stem to live? And to her highly favour’d shrine This strong sensation give?
Well for thy sake their ancient oaks The wood-nymphs might forsake; And in thy purer bosom with Their lov’d abodes to make.
Yet why indignant from each hand Alike dost thou retire? Does ev’ry touch, replete with ill, Alike thy hate inspire?
Too cautious nymph! well might’st thou deign To some thy breast unfold; Sure those would _worship_ at the _touch_, Who _love_ when they _behold_.
Shrunk in herself, with modest grace The Plant thus fair reply’d, “Whate’er my source, my maiden state “But ill agrees with pride[10].