LXXX.

TO A BEE.

THOU 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 grey,

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 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,
Thy master comes for the spoil.
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee!

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,
And streaming lustre radiates in the eyes:
Thy past hours innocent-thy present gay;
Thy future halcyon hope depicts without allay.

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!
And for our bliss let inexperience rest;
For what can prudent foresight's beam display?
Why-the barb'd arrow pointed at our breast―
Teach to suspect the heart we guileless trust,
And, ere we are betray'd, to think a friend unjust.

Thou candid Age! with ardent friendship fraught,
That fearless confidence to none denies;
Better sometimes deceived-and, artless, taught
By thy own griefs the wisdom of the wise:

For sad experience, with sorrowing breath,
Sheds, weeping sheds, the pristine roses in Hope's

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,
Nor do I dwell in distant land;
Study, and thought, and watchful care
In every place may me command.

"I am not lightly to be won;
A visit only now I make;
And much must by yourself be done,
Ere me you for an inmate take.

"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.”