But short, alas! his giddy play,
His pleasure proves his doom.

The child, in such simplicity,
About the bee-hive clings,
And with one drop of honey, he
Receives a thousand stings.

TO A BEE.

THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee!
When abroad 1 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,
I saw thee, thou busy, busy Bee!

Thou wert alive, thou busy, busy Bee!

When the crowd in their sleep were dead; Thou wert abroad in the freshest hour,

When the sweetest odour comes from the flower. Man will not learn to leave his lifeless bed, And be wise and copy thee, thou busy, busy Bee!

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee!

After the fall of the cistus flower,

I heard thee last as I saw thee first,

When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst.

In the coolness of the ev'ning hour, I heard 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 youth in heaping and hoarding is spent What thy age will never enjoy.

I will not copy thee, thou miserly Bee!

Thou art a fool, thou busy, busy Bee,

Thus for another to toil!

Thy master waits till thy work is done,
Till the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And then he will seize the spoil,

And will murder thee, thou poor little Bee!

ANTHOLOGY.

66 The Cranes.-The Strength of Virtue.

THE CRANES.

MARK how, when sullen clouds appear,
And wintry storms deface the year,
The prudent cranes no longer stay,
But take the wing, and thro' the air
From the cold region fly away,

And far o'er land and seas to warmer climes repair.

THE STRENGTH OF VIRTUE.

Of malice

...

.Against the threats
or that power

Which erring men call Chance, this hold I firm,
Virtue may be assail'd, but never hurt,—
Surpris'd by unjust force, but not inthrall'd;
Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm,
Shall in the happy trial prove most glory :
But evil on itself shall back recoil,
And mix no more with goodness.

MILTON.

The Nightingale.-The Serpent. 67

THE NIGHTINGALE.

CLOSE in the poplar shade the nightingale With piercing cries does her lost young bewail; Which the rough hind observing, as they lay Warm in their downy nest, had stol'n away · But she in mournful sounds does still complain, Sings all the night, tho' all her songs are vain, And still renews her miserable strain.

LEE.

THE SERPENT.

IN fair Calabria's woods a snake is bred, With curling crest, and with advancing head, Waving he rolls, and makes a shining track: His belly spotted, burnish'd is his back:

While springs are gushing, while the southern air

And dropping heav'ns the moisten'd earth repair, He lives on standing lakes or trembling bogs; And fills his maw with fish, or with loquacious frogs.

But when, in muddy pools, the water sinks, And the chapt earth is furrow'do'er with chinks,

He leaves the fens and leaps upon the ground,
And, hissing, rolls his glaring eyes around.
With thirst inflam'd, impatient of the heats,
He rages in the fields, and wide destruction
threats.

O! let not sleep my closing eyes invade
In open plains, or in the secret shade,
When he, renew'd in all the speckled pride
Of pompous youth, has cast his slough aside,
And in his summer liv'ry rolls along,
Erect, and brandishing his forky tongue,
Leaving his nest and his imperfect young;
And, thoughtless of his eggs, forgets to rear
The hopes of poison for the coming year.
DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.

CONTENT.

How clad with smiles the vernal morn!
How gay the bloom-bespangled thorn!
The lark is up, the welkin rings,
And with his flock the shepherd sings:
O! let my days with his be spent,
In rural shades with mild content.