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The mignionette perfumes the air,
And stock's unfading flowers are there.
Yet, fear not, when the tempests come,
And drive thee to thy waxen home;
That we shall, then, most treacherously,
For thy honey murder thee.

Ah, no! throughout the winter drear
We'll feed thee; that another year
Thou may'st renew thy industry
Among the flowers, thou little busy bee.

TO THE BEE.

THOU wert out by times, thou busy, busy bee!
When 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 gay,

I saw thee, thou busy busy bee.

Thou wast alive, thou busy busy bee

When the crowd in their sleep lay dead;

Thou wast abroad in the freshest hour,

When the sweetest odour comes from the flower. Man will not learn to leave his slothful bed, And be wise, and copy thee, thou busy, busy bee. Late wast thou working, thou busy, busy bee, After the fall of the cistus-flower;

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first,

When the pale primrose blossom was ready to burst, In coolness fresh, of the evening hour,

I heard thee yet, 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 here copy thee, thou busy bee!

Thou art a fool, thou busy, busy bee!
Thus for others to toil!

Thy master waits till thy work be done,
Till the latest flowers of the ivy are gone;
And then he will seize the spoil,
And will stifle thee, thou busy, busy bee.

THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail adheres, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house, and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or orther harm besides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-retractive power is such,

He shrinks into his house with much
Displeasure.

Smith.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none;

Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads
Alone; on simple viands feeds,
Nor at his humble banquet needs

Attendant.

And though without society,
He finds 'tis pleasant to be free,

And that he's blest who need not be

Dependant.

A WALK BY THE WATER.

LET us walk where reeds are growing,
By the alders in the mead;
Where the crystal streams are flowing,
In whose waves the fishes feed.

There the golden carp is laving,

There the trout, the perch and bream; Mark, their flexile fins are waving,

As they glance along the stream.

Now they sink in deeper billows,
Now upon the surface rise;
Or from under roots of willows,

Dart, to catch the water-flies.

Smith.

'Midst the reeds and pebbles hiding,
See the minnow and the roach;
Or by water-lilies gliding,

Shun, with fear, our near approach.

Do not dread us, timid fishes;

We have neither net nor hook;
Wanderers we, whose only wishes,
Are, to read in Nature's book.

THE MOTH.

WHEN dews fall fast, and rosy day

Fades slowly in the west away,

Smith.

While ev❜ning breezes bend the future sheaves;
Lover of vesper's humid light,

The moth, pale wand'rer of the night,

From his green cradle comes, amid the whisp'ring leaves.

The birds, on insect life who feast,
Now in their woody coverts rest;
The swallow slumbers in his dome of clay;
And of the numerous tribes, that war

On the small denizens of air,

The shrieking bat alone, is on the wing for prey.

Eluding him, on tender plume,

The silver moth enjoys the gloom,

Glancing on tremulous wing thro' twilight bow'rs,

D

Now flits where warm nasturtiums glow,

Now quivers on the jas'mine bough,

And sucks, with spiral tongue, the balm of sleeping flowers.

Yet if from open casement, stream The taper's bright extending beam, And strikes, with lurid ray, his dazzled sight; Nor perfumed leaf, nor honied flower, To check his wild career, has power, But to the attracting flame, he takes his rapid flight. Round it he darts in dizzy rings,

And soon his soft and powder'd wings Are sing'd, and dimmer grow his pearly eyes; And now his struggling feet are foil'd,

And scorch'd, entangl'd, burnt and soil'd, His fragile form is lost; the wretched insect dies.

THE SQUIRREL.

THE squirrel, with aspiring mind,
Disdains to be to earth confin'd,
And mounts aloft in air;

The pine-tree's giddiest height he climbs,
Or scales the witch-elms loftiest limbs,
And builds his castle there.

As Nature's wildest tenants free,

A merry forester is he,

In oak o'ershadowed dells;

Smith.

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