The mignionette perfumes the air, Ah, no! throughout the winter drear TO THE BEE. THOU wert out by times, thou busy, busy bee! 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, Still on thy golden stores intent; Thy youth in heaping and hoarding is spent, I will not here copy thee, thou busy bee! Thou art a fool, thou busy, busy bee! Thy master waits till thy work be done, THE SNAIL. To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, Together. Within that house secure he hides Of weather. Give but his horns the slightest touch, He shrinks into his house with much Smith. Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Well satisfied to be his own Whole treasure. Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads Attendant. And though without society, And that he's blest who need not be Dependant. A WALK BY THE WATER. LET us walk where reeds are growing, 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, Dart, to catch the water-flies. Smith. 'Midst the reeds and pebbles hiding, Shun, with fear, our near approach. Do not dread us, timid fishes; We have neither net nor hook; THE MOTH. WHEN dews fall fast, and rosy day Fades slowly in the west away, Smith. While ev❜ning breezes bend the future sheaves; 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, 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, The pine-tree's giddiest height he climbs, As Nature's wildest tenants free, A merry forester is he, In oak o'ershadowed dells; Smith. |