On the Canst thou no longer tarry in the North,
Wing Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy

nest?

Not one short day?

Wilt thou-as if thou human wert-go forth
And wanton far from them who love thee best?
Whither away?

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

The Shepherd's Home

My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;

Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweetbrier entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood pigeons breed,
But let me such plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;
For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
Who would rob a poor bird of its young;
And I loved her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

On the
Wing

To a Cricket

Voice of Summer, keen and shrill,
Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,

Weary others as they will;

For thy song with Summer's filled--

Filled with sunshine, filled with June;

Firelight echo of that noon

Heard in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May,
Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees, and birds, and flowers away:
Prithee, haunt my fireside stili,
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

On the

Wing

On the Grasshopper and Cricket

The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown
mead;

That is the Grasshopper's-he takes the lead
In summer luxury, he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with
fun,

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there

shrills

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
JOHN KEATS.

The Tax-Gatherer

66 And pray, who are you?"

Said the violet blue

To the Bee, with surprise

At his wonderful size,

In her eye-glass of dew.

"I, madam," quoth he,
"Am a publican Bee,
Collecting the tax

Of honey and wax.

Have you nothing for me?"

JOHN B. TABB.

On the
Wing

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,-
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass!
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to
earth

To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song,—
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

LEIGH HUNT.

On the

Wing

The Bee

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush

I hear the level bee:

A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault

Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away

To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant,

His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience

Of clovers and of noon!

EMILY DICKINSON.

The Humble-Bee

Burly, dozing humble-bee,

Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,

Thou animated torrid zone!