Happy, thrice happy, he whose conscious heart

Happy, thrice happy, he whose conscious heart, Enquires his purpose and discerns his part; Who runs, with heed, th' involuntary race, Nor lets his hours reproach him as they pass; Weighs how they steal away, how sure, how fast, And as he weighs them, apprehends the last; Or vacant, or engag'd, our minutes fly, We may be negligent, but we must die.

THE lab'ring bee, by God instructed, knows, Where op'ning flowers their balmy sweets disclose; The rising sun, her daily task renews, Wide, o'er the plains, she sips the pearly dews; From mead to mead, she wanders through the skies, And yellow thyme distends her loaded thighs. Each rifl'd flow'r rewards her painful toil, And her full hive receives the golden spoil; On flagging wings each load she thither bears, And while the summer smiles, for winter's wants prepares.