Blockhead and Beehive

The fragrance of the new-mown hay Paid incense to the god of day; Who issuing from his eastern gate, Resplendent rode in all his state, Rous'd by the light from soft repose, Big with the Muse, a Bard arose, And the fresh garden's still retreat He measur'd with poetic feet. The cooling, high, o'er-arching shade, By the embracing branches made, The smooth shorn sod, whose verdant gloss, Was check'd with intermingled moss, Cowslips, like topazes that shine, Close by the silver serpentine, Rude rustics which assert the bow'rs, Amidst the educated flow'rs. The lime tree and sweet-scented bay, (The sole reward of many a lay) And all the poets of the wing, Who sweetly without salary sing, Attract at once his observation, Peopling thy wilds, Imagination! “Sweet nature, who this turf bedews, Sweet nature, who's the thrush's muse! How she each anxious thought beguiles, And meets me with ten thousand smiles! O infinite benignity! She smiles, but not alone on me; On hill, on dale, on lake, on lawn, Like Celia when her picture's drawn; Assuming countless charms and airs, 'Till Hayman's matchless art despairs, Pausing like me he dreads to fall From the divine original.” More had he said—but in there came A lout—Squire Booby was his name.— The bard, who at a distant view, The busy prattling blockhead knew, Retir'd into a secret nook, And thence his observations took. Vex'd he cou'd find no man to teize, The squire 'gan chattering to the bees, And pertly with officious mien, He thus address'd their humming queen: “Madam, be not in any terrors, I only come t'amend your errors; My friendship briefly to display, And put you in a better way. Cease, Madam, (if I may advise) To carry honey on your thighs, Employ ('tis better, I aver) Old Grub the fairies coach-maker; For he who has sufficient art To make a coach, may make a cart. To these you'll yoke some sixteen bees, Who will dispatch your work with ease; And come and go, and go and come, To bring your honey harvest home.— Ma'm, architecture you're not skill'd in, I don't approve your way of building; In this there's nothing like design, Pray learn the use of Gunter's line. I'll serve your Highness at a pinch, I am a scholar every inch, And know each author I lay fist on, From Archimedes down to Whiston .— Tho' honey making be your trade, In chemistry you want some aid.— Pleas'd with your work, altho' you sing, You're not quite right—'tis not the thing Myself wou'd gladly be an actor, To help the honey manufacture.— I hear for war you are preparing, Which I should like to have a share in; Yet tho' the enemy be landing, “'Tis wrong to keep an army standing.— If you'll ensure me from the laws, I'll write a pamphlet in your cause.— I vow I am concern'd to see Your want of state—œconomy. Of nothing living I pronounce ill, But I don't like your privy-council.” There is, I know, a certain bee, (Wou'd he was from the ministry) Which certain bee, if rightly known, Wou'd prove no better than a drone; There are (but I shall name no names, I never love to kindle flames) A pack of rogues with crimes grown callous, Who greatly wou'd adorn the gallows,; That with the wasps, for paltry gold, A secret correspondence hold, Yet you'll be great—your subjects free, If the whole thing be left to me.—"     Thus, like the waters of the ocean, His tongue had run in ceaseless motion, Had not the Queen ta'en up in wrath, This thing of folly and of froth.      “Impertinent and witless medler, Thou smattering, empty, noisy pedlar! By vanity, thou bladder blown, To be the football of the town. O happy England, land of freedom, Replete with statesmen, if she need'em, Where war is wag'd by Sue or Nell, And Jobson is a Machiavel!— Tell Hardwick that his judgment fails, Show Justice how to hold her scales.— To fire the soul at once, and please, Teach Murray and Demosthenes; Say Vane is not by goodness grac'd, And wants humanity and taste.— Tho' Pelham with Mæcenas vies, Tell Fame she's false, and Truth she lies; And then return, thou verbal Hector, And give the bees another lecture.”      This said, the portal she unbarr'd, Calling the Bees upon their guard, And set at once about his ears Ten thousand of her granadiers.— Some on his lips and palate hung, And the offending member stung. “Just (says the bard from out the grot) Just, tho' severe, is your sad lot, Who think, and talk, and live in vain. Of sweet society the bane. Business misplac'd is a mere jest, And active idleness at best.”