George Darley

The Wild Bee’s Tale

When the sun steps from the billow
On the steep and stairless sky,
"Up!" I say, and quit my pillow,
"Bed, for many an hour, good-bye!"

Swiftly to the East I turn me,
Where the world's great lustre beams.
Warm to bathe, but not to burn me.
In its radiant fount of streams.

Then unto the glittering valley,
Where Aurora strews her pearls,
With my favourite flowers to dally,
Jewelled all, like princely girls!

There I hum amid the bushes,
Eating honey, as it grows.
Off the cheek of maiden blushes,
And the red lip of the rose.

In the ear of every flower
Buzzing many a secret thing,
Every bright belle of the bower
Thinks it is for her I sing.

But the valley and the river.
That go with me as I go,
Know me for a grand deceiver;
All my pretty pranks they know.

How I lull'd a rose with humming
Gentle ditties in her ear,
Then into her bosom coming,
Rifled all the treasure there.

How I kiss'd a pair of sisters
Hanging from one parent tree,
Whilst each bud-mouth as I kist her's,
Called me—Her own little bee!

Now my Flower-gentle, sighing
To so wild a lover true,
Tells me she is just a-dying,—
So I must go kiss her too.

Down the honeysuckle bending.
As I light upon her crest.
And her silken tucker rending,
Creep I bold into her breast.

There entranced, but scarcely sleeping.
For one odorous while I lie;
But for all her woe and weeping,
In a moment out I fly.

Golden-chain, with all her tresses,
Cannot bind me for an hour;
Soon I break her amorous jesses,
And desert the drooping flower.

They may talk of Happy Heaven,
Of another world of bliss;
Were I choice and freedom given,
I would ask no world but this.

Have they lawns so wide and sunny?
Have they such sweet valleys there?
Are their fields so full of honey?
What care I for fields of air!

Give me earth's rich sun and flowers,
Give me earth's green fields and groves;
Let him fly to Eden's bowers,
He who such cold bowers loves.

O'er the broom and furze and heather.
That betuft the mountain side.
In the sweet sun-shiny weather.
Let me here for ever glide.

Let me o'er the woodland wander.
On my wild bassooning wing,
Let me, as the streams meander,
Murmur to their murmuring.

I can dream of nothing sweeter
Under or above the moon;
Tell me any thing that's better,
And I'll change my song as soon.

But if Heaven must be,—I pr'ythee,
God of woodlands! grant my prayer—
Let me bring my woodland with me,
Or find such another there!