The Sun throws his ray on the lake,
The vessels are scudding along;
Before half the city's awake,
The air is all action and song!
The Bees haste away to the moors,
And eager their task to complete,
Extract from the bells of the flowers,
Their delicate essences sweet.
All cheerful they hurry along,
Their storehouse of food to increase,
Till Death puts an end to their song,
The citizen's table to grace.
Though few can their weapons withstand,
Or few can their forces defeat,
Yet Death with a torch at command,
Soon makes the wing'd armies retreat.
At once their anxiety droops,
In the grave they lie silent and still,
While strangers are draining the cup,
They made such exertions to fill.
O may I be bold as the Bee,
In work of a similar cast,
So faithful, industrious, and free,
And labour, and sing to the last!