 | Poems |  |
146
CUPID AND THE BEE.
Cupid, in his bower reclining,
Knew not that a bee was near,
Till his hand, the flowers entwining,
Felt the sting it planted there.
Knew not that a bee was near,
Till his hand, the flowers entwining,
Felt the sting it planted there.
Then the tiny God, upstarting,
Sought his mother, wild with pain;
All his fear and grief imparting,
While the tear-drops fell like rain.
Sought his mother, wild with pain;
All his fear and grief imparting,
While the tear-drops fell like rain.
147
“Mother! I am wounded,—dying!”
Whined the urchin piteously;
“Stung alas! while yonder lying,
By a little spiteful bee.”
Whined the urchin piteously;
“Stung alas! while yonder lying,
By a little spiteful bee.”
“If such pain,” replied his mother,
“In a bee's small sting be found,
Think, my son, what they must suffer
Whom thy sharper arrows wound.”
“In a bee's small sting be found,
Think, my son, what they must suffer
Whom thy sharper arrows wound.”
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