484 A. SANDERS PIATT. [1850-60. THE DAINTY BEE. The dainty bee 'mid waxen cells Of golden beauty ever dwells And dreams his life away ; His food a million flowers caught From out the sunlight, as they wrought Through spring and summer's day. Slothful bee, the spring-time's morning Wakes him from his winter's dream. Reveler 'mid the pleasures gathered From the wild-bloom and the stream ; But the spring-time's ray of gladness Calls him to the fields again, Calls him with the voice of flowers Flowing 'mid the sunlit rain. Goes he to the fields of plenty, Searches 'mid the rare perfume, Gathers honey from their beauty, While he sings his wanton tune ; Filling 'mid the sweets and fancies That o'erburthen all the air, Gathering dainties for the palace That the queenly group may share. Drunk with treasures, overladened, Slow he wings his way along, Gladdens all the scenes with humming O'er his dainty little song. Wanton bee, ah ! busy-body. Drinking from each perfumed cup, All day straying in the valley Gathering sweets to treasure up. Lives he in a world of beauty, ' Floating on its rare perfume, Sipping May-time's early blossoms, Reveling in the bed of June; In the snows amid the clover, Dainty snows, how sweet and shy ! Threaded with the green of summer, Perfumed frosts of mid July ! Thy home is Nature's world-wide palace. Nature's wild secluded ways. Lit with night's dews, di'eam of morning, Wakened with a million rays. See the sunlight's silver fingers, Lifting fragrance to the sky. Fill the vale with many rare joys As they slowly waft them by; Scents the air, thy wings to bathe in, Guides thee to the treasure pure ; Airs that play the rarest music, For such dainty epicure. Labor, while the summer lingers. Labor, while the south-wind blows. Ere the North King, marching southwai'd, Fills thy garden with his snows. SING, CRICKET. Sing, cricket, sing your olden song — We'll have some chat together ; The snow and rain, against the pane. Proclaim a change of weather. The long blue grass has fallen down. Pressed closely to the earth ; There are no summer spots, and snow Has chilled your songs of mirth. The lily with its gorgeous leaves, Decked blue and white and gold, Has crept back to the eai-th again. Chilled with the autumn cold. And thou art left, thou browny elf, So come in to the fire : Get you into your little cell — For winter tune your lyre ; And through its weary hours we'll sing Of hearts that loved us well. Of flowers, and their birth in spring That weaves life's fairy spell. Sing, cricket, sing, from out your cell, Thou hermit of the hearth ; More joy about your songs doth dwell Than in the wine-cup's mirth.
