Within the garden's cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the silent dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's hidden nest.
In every clime, in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And sweetly blossoms every where.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer reign,
The modest Daisy never dies.
4. The Hive-Bee.
Child of patient industry,
Little active busy Bee:
For thou art out at early morn,
Just as op'ning flowers are born.
Thou on eager wing art flown,
Where the thyme grows on the down;
Or, where the cowslips hang their heads,
In the green and grassy meads.
Or to revel 'mid the broom,
Or the clover's crimson bloom;
Or by the hedge-rows, where the dew
Glitters on the harebell blue.
