  FANNY, array’d in the bloom of her beauty, Stood at the mirror, and toy’d with her hair, Viewing her charms, till she felt it a duty To own that like Fanny no woman was fair. A Bee from the garden—oh, what could mislead him?— Stray’d through the lattice new dainties to seek, And lighting on Fanny, too busy to heed him, Stung the sweet maid on her delicate cheek. Smarting with pain, round the chamber she sought him, Tears in her eyes, and revenge in her heart, And angrily cried, when at length she had caught him, “Die for the deed, little wretch that thou art!” Stooping to crush him, the hapless offender Pray’d her for mercy,—to hear and forgive; “Oh, spare me!” cried he, “by those eyes in their splendour; Oh, pity my fault, and allow me to live! “Am I to blame that your cheeks are like roses, Whose hues all the pride of the garden eclipse? Lilies are hid in your mouth when it closes, And odours of Araby breathe from your lips.” Sweet Fanny relented: “’twere cruel to hurt you; Small is the fault, pretty bee, you deplore; And e’en were it greater, forgiveness is virtue; Go forth and be happy—I blame you no more.” Charles Mackay. |
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