POETRY.
THE BEES IN THE LIME-TREE..
WHEN the lime-tree is in flower, Summer knows one fairer hour, Than the Spring itself can show, While the may and lilac blow.
From its tasselled blooms o'erhead Odours on the air are shed, Delicate, elusive, faint, As the aura of a saint.
Or ethereal breaths that rise From the flowers of Paradise.
Hark, how from the scented gloomy
Of its myriad leafy rooms—
Where amid the glancing green, Peeps of bluest sky are seen- Rumourous music bath enwound Branch and stem with rhythmic sound r.
'Tis the bees that all day long Murmur thus their vintage song: " Sweet were blue-bells, but they're over, Sweet the gorse and sweet the clover, Sweet is heather, sweet is thyme, Sweeter still this fragrant lime."
But the murmur of their gladness Waketh in my heart a sadness For the swarm of Labour's thralls Pent within our city walls, Where the joyless drudges strive For themselves, not for the hive.
Ah ! the secret of this mirth, Could I bring it down to earth, Soon the world of men should be Blither than my linden-tree.
R. H. LAN.
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