The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain

Can turn to little things; but once
Looked up for it in vain:

'Tis gone a ruthless spoiler's prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,
'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved,
Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
And felt that all was well.

The primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,

A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb

Thy quiet with no ill intent,

Secure from evil eyes and hands

On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, mother-bird! and when thy young
Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
When withered is the guardian flower,
And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
Amid the unviolated grove,

Housed near the growing primrose tuft,
In foresight, or in love.

WORDSWORTH.

To a Bee.

253

TO A BEE.

HOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy bee!
As abroad I took my early way,

Before the cow from her resting-place

Had risen up, and left her trace

On the meadow, with dew so gray,

Saw I thee, thou busy, busy bee.

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!

After the fall of the cistus flower,

When the primrose of evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;

In the silence of the evening hour,

Heard I thee, thou busy, busy bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy bee!

Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy summer in keeping and hoarding is spent,
What thy winter will never enjoy;

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy bee!

What is the end of thy toil.

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,

Thy master comes for the spoil;

Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy bee!

SOUTHEY.

THE BUSY BEE.

OW doth the little busy bee,

Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey, all the day,
From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads her wax,
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour, or of skill,
I would be busy too;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,
my first years be past;

Let

That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

WATTS.

THE SONG OF THE BEES.

E watch for the light of the morn to break,
And colour the eastern sky,

With its blended hues of saffron and lake,

Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!"

For our winter's honey is all to make,

And our bread for a long supply.

To a Butterfly.

And off we hie to the hill and dell,

To the field, and the meadow, and bower; We love in the columbine's horn to dwell,

To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,
To search the balm and its odorous cell,
The mint, and the rosemary flower.

We seek the bloom of the eglantine,
Of the painted thistle and brier,
And follow the steps of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the ground supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine,
And reach for a state still higher.

While each, on the good of her sister bent,
Is busy, and cares for all,

We hope for an evening with full content
For the winter of life; without lament

That summer is gone, its hours misspent,
And the harvest is past recall.

255

MISS GOULD.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

'VE watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly, indeed,

I know not if you sleep or feed.

How motionless!-not frozen seas

More motionless; and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song;

And summer days when we were young;

Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

WORDSWORTH.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

APPY insect! what can be

In happiness compared to thee?

Fed with nourishment divine,

The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,

And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,

Happier than the happiest king!

All the fields which thou dost see,

All the plants belong to thee,
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plough;

Farmer he and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.