Burly, dozing. humble bee, Where then art is Chime for me. R.M. Emerson TO THE HUMBLEBEE. "How's my boy - my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? How's my boy-my boy? Tell me of him and no other. How's my boy-my boy?" SYDNEY DOBELL. TO THE HUMBLEBEE. FINE humblebee, fine humblebee! Honeyed cells: These the tents Which he frequents. Insect lover of the sun, Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air, TO THE HUMBLEBEE. Voyager of light and noon, Wait, I prithee, till I come When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, Hot Midsummer's petted crone ! Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Aught unsavory or unclean INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. But violets, and bilberry-bells, Wiser far than human seer, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. I. You know we French stormed Ratisbon. A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; |