The Massachusetts Spy, Or, Thomas's Boston Journal

POETS' CORNER.

THE PROPHETIC BEE.

Florella, under Roma's clime,
Smil'd, and blush'd, to think so near:
Breath'd the pure, wholesome country air
The virgin's wish, at fifteenth year.

Her prudent parents often read,
Over other lectures to her head,
How pleas'd they were she had not known
This follies of a wicked town!

To store with what was good, her mind,
That all their thoughts had been confin'd,
Hoped he would not do, or know,
But, while her tutors thus impart,
To make her make a frugal wife
And wish'd, in the decline of life,
What Lucy did, some months ago.

Far, beaux, and belles, and sages, tell,
Their precepts never reach'd the heart:
Her heart on other things did dwell;
More suited to her ruling passion:
On balls, and plays, and love, and fashion
Florella, prudently, had weigh'd
Her taste with what her brother said:
She heard the bounds of law and duty,
Yet study'd more the pow'r of beauty
Once in a week read holy writ,
But slept, each night, with Congreve's wit
In short, Florella thought her age
Not grave enough to set the stage
What nature, whim, and folly gave'd.
And, therefore, eagerly pursu'd
She learnt betimes, to ply the fan,
To laugh, and ogle, with her man
Her dress, her air, with studious art,
Were taught her wiles to impart;
She try'd by action, word, and look
To be a lovely, flirting creature,
In that soft morn, when virgins, fond
With fashion's charms, are man-attir'd;
When cautious prudes in whisper tell
The ills that luckless prudes befel:
The fair Florella left her room,
To view the flow'rs op'ning bloom,
Along the garden, sauntering, stray'd
The self-admiring, thoughtless, maid,
Where, meeting Flora in the way,
Join'd, arm in arm, with chearful May
But, pluck'd the posy from her breast,
She glance'd contempt; nor here could rest;
An early cowslip, spring's luxury,
Which courts, and pleases ev'ry eye
A rival tulip deck'd with dew,
The first in time as in place,
A stock, that scents the vernal air
A violet sweet, narcissus fairy,
A dappled pink, with many more,
From off their native stems she tore,
The wanton smil'd—she kiss'd—the froward
Then throw her garland on the ground
Her smiles, her frowns, her looks intent,
Spoke, plain as language, what she meant,
With voice distinct they seem'd to cry
Go, short-liv'd pageants of a day!
Go; seek some lighter nymph to grace
Your charms more blooming than her face
To, no sweets that scent the various wreath,
Can equal sweeter Florella's breath
No blushing rose; no lily fair,
Can with Florella's face compare!
In vain you flourish in your bow'r,
As each shepherd owns and feels thy pow'r
Just then a bee (to talk like Gay)
In search of sweets was on his way
Clung to an hyacinth, from whence
Observant, as a bee of sense
He gaz'd around; survey'd the fair,
Her beauteous form, her giddy air:
And while, with pity, glow'd his breast
Thus he his sentiment express'd,
Unthinking maid! an emblem bee,
Of what your future fate may be
That beauty, when familiar grown,
Will cease to wound each fop may
May feel its pow'r too, but yet,
What sin can fix a male-coquette?
Beaux will behold you, as a toy
A pretty play-thing for an hour;
And he whose bosom virtue warms,
Thinks red and white are feeble charms
But what if (once your pride subdu'd,)
The trifling coxcomb dare be rude?
What, if his vanity you bless't?
And th' whole woman yield to dress?
Your charms, alas, will then be found
As garlands with'ring on the ground
Your beauty as a faded flow'r,
Long sever'd from its native bow'r,
No more will blush upon your cheek
But drooping, your dishonour speak;
Shunning, and shunn'd, by ev'ry eye,
Contemn'd you'll live, dishonour'd die.

FRANCIS VAIDALE.