ORIGINAL RHYMES.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume VI, Issue 284, 1 December 1871, Page 4

ORIGINAL RHYMES.

THE BEE.

The gaudy blossoms on the trees, The opening flower* on slope an\i plain, Load with theirjp»ets the evening breeze, And make the^-tfTjrid look gay again. Again the lark is heard on high— WichscJugs of love the woodland rings, ,The busy bee is buzzing by, Or fanning flowers with silken wings. > I love the bee— the toiling bee, It ever has been dear to me, I love it for the earnest way It bounds about from flower to flower, Throughout the longest summer day It loses not a sunny hour. No honey flower on mead or tree In woodland wide or garden bower, On bramble bank or clover lea But it will find in some bright hour, And round it strains of music pour. In nature's wild or cultured park, It toils away from light till dark, And ever singing to its toil. Except the momentary while The opening beauties it explores To pilfer them ot nect'rine treasure, Then up again, away ie soars, And tunes afresh its humming measure To blend its daily toils with pleasure. And thus until its labor's done It drains the flowerets one by one, Nor seems to weary with its toils Till it is laden with their spoils; Or till the day begins to close, When home it flies to seek repose, Or still to sing and tore away Sweet food against a rainy day, Or Winter's cold and stormy hours. While winds have swept away the flowers. Worth makes the man — the poet says In one of England's noblest Jays; If so — the bee's the manliest thing That e^er soared on poised wing, * Or charm'd us when we heard it sing. Though birds may sing a louder song We do not love the bee the less, Rejoicing opening flowers among, And hymning hearty happiness While gathering food to eat at ease, * Food which the daintiest may pleas'e — Yea 1 please a gourmand epicure It is so sweet and brightly pure, And tastes the more deliciously, And seems the more a luxury Because it has been got by toil While sunshine on the flowers did smile. But labour. food is always sweet How brown the bread 'tis doom'd to eat, If happiness possess the breaat 'Tis always eaten with a zest That none may know, whose days are spent, In idleness and discontent. I love the bee, it is to me A pattern of true industry. 0. W. H. M. Nelson. November. 1871.