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mab's lesson.
But all the dear writers have done their best
She knows, and a feeling akin to pain
Stirs the Queen Bee's kindly breast,
As she thinks of the efforts made in vain.
But "something attempted, something done,"
Is hot labour lost, though it win no prize;
For each effort made—the feeblest one—
Is the voice of the soul, which bids us rise;
And there are higher heights than fame—
A fairer and a richer goal—
And every lofty thought and aim
Means the progression of the soul.
She knows, and a feeling akin to pain
Stirs the Queen Bee's kindly breast,
As she thinks of the efforts made in vain.
But "something attempted, something done,"
Is hot labour lost, though it win no prize;
For each effort made—the feeblest one—
Is the voice of the soul, which bids us rise;
And there are higher heights than fame—
A fairer and a richer goal—
And every lofty thought and aim
Means the progression of the soul.
Mab's Lesson.
A little maid, with streaming curls,
Of loveliest golden hue,
A little maid; with shining eyes
Of sweet entrancing blue;
A little maid, whose charming face
Looks rather pettish, too,
Of loveliest golden hue,
A little maid; with shining eyes
Of sweet entrancing blue;
A little maid, whose charming face
Looks rather pettish, too,
Sits in a great, warm, easy chair,
'Mid cushions soft as down,
Within a cheerful, cosy room—
But wherefore doth she frown?
Because papa has failed to bring
Her something new from town.
'Mid cushions soft as down,
Within a cheerful, cosy room—
But wherefore doth she frown?
Because papa has failed to bring
Her something new from town.
