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The beetle there, that flies the light of day-
There feasts th' unbidden drone-there ring the alarms
Of hornets battling with unequal arms;
Dire gnaws the moth, and o'er their portals spread
The spider watches her aërial thread.
Yet still, when most oppress’d, they mostly strive,
And tax their strength to renovate the hive ;
Contending myriads urge exhaustless powers,

Fill every cell, and crowd the comb with flowers.
Translation of W. SOTHEBY.



So work the honey-bees ;
Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach
The art of order to a peopled kingdom.
They have a king, and officers of sorts ;
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home :
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad :
Others, like soldiers, armed in their sting,
Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds,
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent royal of their emperor-
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
The singing masons building roofs of gold ;
The civil citizens kneading up the honey;
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate;
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale
The lazy, yawning drone.

Henry V., Act I., S. 2.



The drone is a gross, stingless bee, that spendeth his time in gluttony and idleness; for howsoever he brave it with his round, velvet cap, his side gown, his full paunch, and his loud voice, yet is he but an idle companion, living by the sweat of others' brows. He worketh not at all, either at home or abroad, and yet spendeth as much as two laborers; you shall never find his man without a good drop of the purest nectar. In the heat of the day he flieth abroad, aloft, and about, and that with no small noise, as though he would do some great act; but it is only for his pleasure, and to get him a stomach, and then returns he pleasantly to his cheer.


Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn,
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn,
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course,
And many a stream allures her to its source.
'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought,
Beyond the reach of sense, the soar of thought,
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind,
Its orb so full, its vision so confined!
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue
Of varied scents, that charm’d her as she flew ?
Hail, memory, hail! thy universal reign
Guards the least link of being's glorious chain.




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事 *

Phys. * Let me now call your attention to that Michaelmas daisy. A few minutes ago, before the sun sunk behind the hill, its flowers were covered with varieties of bees, and some wasps, all busy in feeding on its sweets. I never saw a more animated scene of insect enjoyment. The bees were most of them humble-bees, but many of them new varieties to me, and the wasps appeared different from any I have seen before.

Hal. I believe this is one of the last autumnal flowers that insects of this kind haunt. In sunny days it is their constant point of resort, and it would afford a good opportunity to the entomologist to make a collection of British bees.

Poict. I neither hear the hum of the bee, nor can I see any on its flowers. They are now deserted.

Phys. Since the sun has disappeared, the cool of the evening has, I suppose, driven the little winged plunderers to their homes ; but see! there are two or three humble-bees which seem languid with the cold, and yet they have their tongues still in the fountain of honay. I believe one of them is actually dead, yet his mouth is still attached to the flower. He has fallen asleep, and probably died while making his last meal of ambrosia.



The honey-bee, that wanders all day long,

The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,

To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,

Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips—
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips

The single drop of sweetness closely press'd
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,

In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of humanity;
And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.


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And yet

TILES FLETCHER is one of the old English poets but

little known to the general reader in America. he was the author of a poem of high merit. He was born about twenty years after Shakspeare, or in 1588, and came of a family marked by great poetical talent. John Fletcher, the celebrated dramatist and fellow-laborer of Beaumont, was a cousin, and it was his elder brother, Phineas Fletcher, who wrote “ The Purple Island,” that singular and elaborate poetical allegory, carried out through twelve cantos, and relieved by much occasional beauty of thought and style. The father also, Dr. Giles Fletcher, has been ranked among the good poets of his day. The only work of Giles Fletcher, the son, which has been published, is of a religious character, “Christ's Victory and Triumph,” a poem in four parts. It has never been reprinted entire in America, though full of fine passages, and marked throughout with originality and beauty.

subjects are of course very much of the same nature as those of “ Paradise Regained;" a comparison of the two poems, however, by no means diminishes our admiration for the work of Fletcher, especially when we bear in mind that he wrote half a century before Milton. In fact, “ Christ's Victory and Triumph” was, at the time it appeared, the finest sacred poem of any length in our language; it is full of a jubilant poetical eloquence and the earnest expression of strong religious feeling connected with the subject. Giles Fetcher, like his brother Phineas, was a clergyman of the Church of England, and led an uneventful life in his country parish of Alderton, Suffolk, where he died in 1623.

A description of Spring at Easter will, it is hoped, give the reader pleasure.



Hush'd is the howl of wintry breezes wild;
The purple hour of youthful spring has smiled :
A livelier verdure clothes the teeming earth;
Buds press to life, rejoicing in their birth ;
The laughing meadows drink the dews of night,
And fresh with opening roses glad the sight :
In song the joyous swains responsive vie;
Wild music floats and mountain melody.

Adventurous seamen spread the embosomed sail
O'er waves light heaving to the western gale ;
While village youths their brows with ivy twine,
And hail with song the promise of the vine.

In curious cells the bees digest their spoil,
When vernal sunshine animates their toil,
And little birds, in warblings sweet and clear,
Salute thee, Maia, loveliest of the year:
Thee, on their deeps, the tuneful halcyons hail,
In streams the swan, in woods the nightingale.

If earth rejoices with new verdure gay,
And shepherds pipe, and flocks exulting play,
And sailors roam, and Bacchus leads his throng,
And bees to toil, and birds awake to song,
Shall the glad bard be mute in tuneful spring,
And, warm with love and joy, forget to sing?

Trunslation of ROBERT BLAND.

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