For thou became my mistress--I have thrown My heart and hope on thee--I cannot bear That, with my life, my name should pass away, And be forgot, when I am dead and gone; And in the grave, when mouldering in decay, That my remembrance should be buried there. I care not for the world, or the world's ways, I scorn alike its censure and its praise; But from the mental few, by heaven designed To rate and recognise a kindred mind, A sure approval I will strive to gain, For this is fame indeed,--all other is but vain.
HA! pretty little bee, So artless, blithe, and free! Whither are you wandering Thus so gaily on the wing? To every flower o'erhung with dew, Whose leaves are blossoming for you; To the wild flowers far away, Bright and beautiful as they; From each blooming one to sip Sweets, like those of woman's lip, Oh! happy, happy, happy bee, Would it were as free to me! Away! away! for ever thus Your airy flight has past from us; And you are gone where flowers invite, A pilgrimage of rich delight.
But come not near the hollyhock, (2) Let not its blooms your fancy mock; Shun its nectaries so fair, Death is ever lurking there; On its petals if you light, You'll be seized with instant blight. Shun it as you onward fly! Sip its poison and you die! But hie thee to the lavender, Pretty little pilferer! Or the limetree, in whose breast You oft have sipped yourself to rest. Go, wanderer, to the healthful wild, By the heath-flower's bloom beguiled, Where sunshine, like a robe of gold, Flings its fond light o'er wood and wold; There, in the calyx of the flower, You love the best at noontide hour, Prepare the mead, whose luscious draught, The best of former nations quaff'd. Little rambler, do you know Why it is we love you so? It is for the ceaseless hymn, That you warble, as you swim Through the odoriferous air, Light as fairy gossamer-- 'Tis, for you are always gay, Making life a holiday, Flying leisurely o'er earth, A wingëd messenger of mirth.
When you meet the butterfly, 'Neath the lovely summer sky, Do you show to her the bower, That contains the sweetest flower? Or do you take herself to be, While thus wandering so free, A floweret floating on the air, Making all delightful there?