Ode on a Bumble-Bee

Oh, busy, breezy bumble-bee, A fitting theme in you I see! At once you backward turn my gaze To orchard, mead, and pasture days, To watch your movements to and fro With wondering eyes, as years ago. Come, let me set my mark on thee, As thou hast oft remembered me, When with a seeming special zeal You hastened to affix your seal. I’ve heard your gruff good-morrow ring When meeting kinsfolk on the wing; Now coming zig-zag, light and airy, Now going laden, straight and wary; Still mindful of the spider’s snare And kingbird, pirate of the air.

I’ve seen you upward turn your eye, When clouds began to fleck the sky, The winds to chafe the village pond, And thunder rumble far beyond And threaten storm, ere you could fill Your honey sack, so empty still. I’ve heard you whining forth your grief When rain commenced to pelt the leaf, And made you take the shortest road That brought you to your dark abode. I’ve marked your grumbling when you found The working bee had been around; Had left his bed and waxen door And reached the field an hour before; For still, with early bird, or bee, Or man, the maxim does agree They all must be content to find What early risers leave behind. Against the bell I’ve heard you storm, Because it kept your burly form From passing in the honeyed way, That open to the emmet lay. Thus human folk are oft denied What, in their judgment, or their pride, They should enjoy, though kept instead For meaner things that creep ahead. I know how apt you are to cling To locks of hair, to hide and sing, And keep the victim still in doubt Just where the mischief will break out; I know full well your angry tone, And how you stab to find the bone; With what a brave, heroic breast Ye strike for queen and treasure chest, Like Sparta’s sons, at duty’s call, Compelled to win, or fighting fall; Not fearing odds, nor counting twice, Ye fix your bayonet in a trice, And charge upon the nearest foe, And break the ranks where’er you go. For not the stroke of halberdier Nor thrust of Macedonian spear Can check your onset when you fly With full intent to do or die! Beneath your straight and rapid dart The foe will tumble, turn, depart, And leave you victor, to report Your doings at the Queen Bee’s court. And proudly may you bare your brow, In presence of your sovereign bow, And tell her why you came so late, Thus panting, to the palace gate; And show your limbs of wax bereft, Your right arm crushed, and sprained the left, Your twisted horn, exhausted sting, Your wounded scalp and tattered wing, But how, in spite of every ill, You struck for independence still, Until the acre lot was free Of all that would molest the bee.

’Tis said that youngsters have a knack To take you prisoner by the back; To catch you by the wings, in haste, A piece above the belted waist, And hold you thus, to struggle there, And use your sting on empty air. But once I tried, and once I missed, For you’re a great contortionist, And somehow turn, and manage still To plant your poison where you will. Ah, they are wise, who meddling cease, And let you go your way in peace!

Though many things may slip my mind Before the narrow bed I find, In fancy’s field I’d often see The busy, burly bumble-bee.