Classic Poem

As Celia lay reclin'd in sleep,
Within a fragrant grove,
Regardless of her crook and sheep,
She left her lambs to rove.

A Bee, ambitious of his pow'r,
Beheld the lovely fair;
And found thee, ah, too hapless hour!
When Delvill was not there.

To fix on Celia's damask cheek,
And print his fatal sting;
But ere he thought his slight to seek,
She seiz'd the tremb'ling thing.

With earnest look, and pain intense,
Yet anger she repress'd;
And mindless of his great offence,
The wanton Bee address'd.

" Say, cruel fly, what crime I've done,
" To feel your venom'd dart;
" Methinks thy looks doth answer — none;
" Then why inflict this smart?

" Ah! guilty, guilty; but away,
" Thy judge doth thee dismiss;
" Go — to some distant climate stray,
" And take this pardon'd kiss. "

Releas'd the victor buzzing flies,
And round the damsel play'd;
While Morpheus gently clos'd the eyes
Of the forgiving maid.

But scarce again by sleep caress'd,
Oh! treacherous Bee, he flew;
And darting on the virgin's breast,
He stung that haven too.

" Oh! Heav'n, " she cry'd, " so soon return'd,
" Ungrateful savage Bee;
" Has then this breast which pity burn'd,
" Deserv'd its wound from thee? "

" Ah! no, my lovely Celia, no, "
Cry'd Delvill drawing near;
" I've seen thy anguish, felt thy woe,
" And have a witness here. "

She turn'd and saw it was too true,
Her foe again was caught; —
And justice claim'd the victim due,
To death was rightly brought.

Soft pity now forsook her seat,
Tho' Celia wishful sigh'd;
Revenge her Delvill's bosom beat,
" Die traitor, die! " he cry'd.