LINES Occasioned by my putting a Bee out of my Window one cold Morning in February, at the request of a Child.

LINES

Occasioned by my putting a Bee out of my Window one cold Morning in February, at the request of a Child.

AH beauteous stranger! here too soon, For pity came too late; Granted to fear a coward boon, And thee resign'd to fate.

The deed which stopp'd thy honied breath, Convey'd a sting to me; Grieving the fatal gift was death, Which I meant liberty.

Nature thy golden plumage drest, And tun'd thy simple note; But yet a niggard of her feast, My erring hand forgot.

No vernal robe, or summer sweet, Blossoms or plant display; A herald of the spring to greet, Nor sunbeam cheer'd thy way.

Black Eurus chill'd thy infant wing, Dread wastes affright thine eye; Opening the vocal choir of spring, Stern winter bid thee die.

Ah! what avails a bounteous store, Or what a heart to give; When the important minute's o'er, That sufferers might receive?