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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-sustaining charms abound:

No honeyed sweetness to repair
The languid waste of life 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.

“Fly, fond adventurer, fly the art
“That courts thine eye with fair attire;

“Who smiles to win the heedless heart,
“Will smile to see that heart expire.

“This modest flower of humbler hue,
“That boasts no depth of glowing dyes,

“Arrayed in unbespangled blue,
“The simple cloathing of the skies—

“This flower, with balmy sweetness blest,
“May yet thy languid life renew:”

He said, and to the Violet's breast
The little vagrant faintly flew.

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FRoM BAcTRIA's vales, where beauty blows
Luxuriant in the genial ray;

Where flowers a bolder gem disclose,
And deeper drink the golden day:


From BAcTRIA's vales to BRITAIN's shore
What time the CRowN IMPERIAL came,

Full high the stately stranger bore
The honours of his birth and name.

In all the pomp of eastern state,
In all the eastern glory gay,

He bade, with native pride elate,
Each flower of humbler birth obey.

O, that the child unborn might hear,
Nor hold it strange in distant time,
That freedom even to flowers was dear,
To flowers that bloomed in Britain's clime!
Through purple meads, and spicy gales,
Where STRY Mon's" silver waters play,
While far from hence their goddess dwells,
She rules with delegated sway.

The Ionian Strymon.

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