The Remonstrance

Why mimic thus the feeble bee And flutter over each lovely flower Where is the harp I strung for thee The wing I braced with growing power I gave thee not the sprightly flute To call the dance and wake the song I gave you not the breathing lute A lovers sighing to prolong The harp I gave you was once my own But seldom struck by mortal hand Its cords are deep, and wild it’s tone And nature owns its stern command Then plunge amid the battle storm Fire with its peals the hero’s breast Nor waste a note on beauty’s form To win a smile, and lose thy rest Or catch, amid the blazing sky The melody of rolling spheres Nor let the beam of beauty’s eye Profane thy song or wake thy fears