LXXX. TO A BEE. THOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee! On the meadow, with dew so grey, Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee. Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee! When the Primrose of evening was ready to burst 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 heaping 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, LXXXI. ODE TO YOUTH. SWEET morn of life! all hail, ye hours of ease! When blooms the cheek with roseate varying dyes; When modest grace exerts each power to please, Day-spring of life! O stay thy fleeting hours, Thou fairy reign of every pleasing thought! Fancy, to cheer thy path, strews all her flowers, And in her loom thy plan of years is wrought. By thee for goodness is each heart caress'd; The world, untried, is judged by that within thy breast. Sweet state of Youth! O harmony of soul! Now cheerful dawns the day-noon brightly beams; And evening comes serene, nor cares control; And night approaches with soft infant dreams. Circling, the morn beholds th' accustom'd round, Life's smiling charities awake, and joys abound. Season of hope, and peace, and virtues, stay! Thou candid Age! with ardent friendship fraught, For sad experience, with sorrowing breath, wreath. Season beloved! ah, doom'd to pass away, With all thy freshness, all thy flattering joys; With blooming beauty's envied powerful sway, With laughing hours, the future ne'er enjoys: Ah! be thou spent as virtue bids to spend ! Then, though we wish thy stay-no sighs thy reign shall end. LXXXII. MEMORY. "FOR gold could Memory be bought, What treasures would she not be worth! If from afar she could be brought, I'd travel for her through the earth!" This exclamation once was made By one who had obtain❜d the name Of young forgetful Adelaide; And while she spoke, lo! Memory came. If Memory indeed it were, Or such it only feign'd to be-A female figure came to her, Who said, "My name is Memory! "Gold purchases in me no share, "I am not lightly to be won; "The only substitute for me Was ever found, is call'd a pen; The frequent use of that will be The way to make me come again.” |