Virginia Free Press

FROM THE FARMER'S REGISTER.

To the Editor:

It is without the permission of the fair and accomplished authoress of the "Song of the Bees," that I offer it to be placed in the "poet's corner" of your publication. This little effusion of poetic fancy, written in an hour of sorrow, may serve to cheer the weary swain, who, while he imitates the industry of the bee, may not always possess its patience.

The circumstances under which these lines were written would, if known to your readers, serve to throw a charm around them, even greater than is given them by a mind that adorns whatever it touches.

SONG OF THE BEES.

We watch for the light of the morn to break,
And color the Eastern sky
With its blended hues of saffron and lake;
Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!
For our winter's honey is all to make,
And our bread for a long supply."

And off we hie to the hill and dell,
To the field, to the meadow and bower;
We love in the Columbine's horn to dwell,
To din in the lily with snow-white bell,
To search the balm in its odorous cell,
The mint and the rosemary flower.

We seek the bloom of the eglantine,
Of the painted thistle and brier;
And follow the steps of the wandering vine,
Whether it trail on the earth supine,
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine
And reach for a state still higher.

While each on the good of her sisters bent
Is busy, and cares for all,
We hope for an evening with heart's content,
For the winter of life; without lament
That summer is gone, its hours misspent,
And the harvest is past recall.