Part 5 (1/2)

The Hornets and the Bees.

”The artist by his work is known.”

A piece of honey-comb, one day, Discover'd as a waif and stray, The hornets treated as their own.

Their t.i.tle did the bees dispute, And brought before a wasp the suit.

The judge was puzzled to decide, For nothing could be testified Save that around this honey-comb There had been seen, as if at home, Some longish, brownish, buzzing creatures, Much like the bees in wings and features.

But what of that? for marks the same, The hornets, too, could truly claim.

Between a.s.sertion, and denial, The wasp, in doubt, proclaim'd new trial; And, hearing what an ant-hill swore, Could see no clearer than before.

”What use, I pray, of this expense?”

At last exclaim'd a bee of sense.

”We've labour'd months in this affair, And now are only where we were.

Meanwhile the honey runs to waste: 'Tis time the judge should show some haste.

The parties, sure, have had sufficient bleeding, Without more fuss of scrawls and pleading.

Let's set ourselves at work, these drones and we And then all eyes the truth may plainly see, Whose art it is that can produce The magic cells, the nectar juice.”

The hornets, flinching on their part, Show that the work transcends their art.

The wasp at length their t.i.tle sees, And gives the honey to the bees.

_Would G.o.d that suits at law with us_ _Might all be managed thus!_

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HORNETS AND THE BEES.]

The Oak and the Reed.

The oak one day address'd the reed:-- ”To you ungenerous indeed Has nature been, my humble friend, With weakness aye obliged to bend.

The smallest bird that flits in air Is quite too much for you to bear; The slightest wind that wreathes the lake Your ever-trembling head doth shake.

The while, my towering form Dares with the mountain top The solar blaze to stop, And wrestle with the storm.

What seems to you the blast of death, To me is but a zephyr's breath.

Beneath my branches had you grown, Less suffering would your life have known, Unhappily you oftenest show In open air your slender form, Along the marshes wet and low, That fringe the kingdom of the storm.

To you, declare I must, Dame Nature seems unjust.”

Then modestly replied the reed: ”Your pity, sir, is kind indeed, But wholly needless for my sake.

The wildest wind that ever blew Is safe to me compared with you.

I bend, indeed, but never break.

Thus far, I own, the hurricane Has beat your st.u.r.dy back in vain; But wait the end.” Just at the word, The tempest's hollow voice was heard.

The North sent forth her fiercest child, Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild.

The oak, erect, endured the blow; The reed bow'd gracefully and low.

But, gathering up its strength once more, In greater fury than before, The savage blast O'erthrew, at last, That proud, old, sky-encircled head, Whose feet entwined the empire of the dead!

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE OAK AND THE REED.]