The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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A LEGEND OF THE HIVE. |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
A LEGEND OF THE HIVE.
Behold those wingèd images,
Bound for their evening bowers:
They are the nation of the bees,
Born from the breath of flowers.
Strange people they! a mystic race,
In life, in food, and dwelling-place.
Bound for their evening bowers:
They are the nation of the bees,
Born from the breath of flowers.
Strange people they! a mystic race,
In life, in food, and dwelling-place.
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They first were seen on earth, 'tis said,
When the rose breathes in spring:
Men thought her blushing bosom shed
These children of the wing.
But lo! their hosts went down the wind,
Filled with the thoughts of God's own mind.
When the rose breathes in spring:
Men thought her blushing bosom shed
These children of the wing.
But lo! their hosts went down the wind,
Filled with the thoughts of God's own mind.
They built them houses made with hands,
And there alone they dwell:
No man to this day understands
The mystery of their cell.
Your mighty sages cannot see
The deep foundations of the bee.
And there alone they dwell:
No man to this day understands
The mystery of their cell.
Your mighty sages cannot see
The deep foundations of the bee.
Low in the violets' breast of blue,
For treasured food they sink;
They know the flowers that hold the dew,
For their small race to drink.
They glide—King Solomon might gaze
With wonder on their awful ways.
For treasured food they sink;
They know the flowers that hold the dew,
For their small race to drink.
They glide—King Solomon might gaze
With wonder on their awful ways.
And once—it is a grandame's tale,
Yet filled with secret lore—
There dwelt within a woodland vale,
Fast by old Cornwall's shore,
An ancient woman, worn and bent,
Fallen nature's mournful monument.
Yet filled with secret lore—
There dwelt within a woodland vale,
Fast by old Cornwall's shore,
An ancient woman, worn and bent,
Fallen nature's mournful monument.
A home had they, the clustering race,
Beside her garden wall:
All blossoms breathed around the place,
And sunbeams fain would fall.
The lily loved that combe the best
Of all the valleys of the west.
Beside her garden wall:
All blossoms breathed around the place,
And sunbeams fain would fall.
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Of all the valleys of the west.
But so it was, that on a day
When summer built her bowers,
The waxen wanderers ceased to play
Around the cottage flowers.
No hum was heard, no wing would roam:
They dwelt within their cloister'd home.
When summer built her bowers,
The waxen wanderers ceased to play
Around the cottage flowers.
No hum was heard, no wing would roam:
They dwelt within their cloister'd home.
This lasted long—no tongue could tell
Their pastime or their toil;
What binds the soldier to his cell?
Who should divide the spoil?
It lasted long—it fain would last,
Till autumn rustled on the blast.
Their pastime or their toil;
What binds the soldier to his cell?
Who should divide the spoil?
It lasted long—it fain would last,
Till autumn rustled on the blast.
Then sternly went that woman old,
She sought the chancel floor,
And there, with purpose bad and bold,
Knelt down amid the poor.
She took-she hid—that blessèd bread,
Whereon the Invisible is shed.
She sought the chancel floor,
And there, with purpose bad and bold,
Knelt down amid the poor.
She took-she hid—that blessèd bread,
Whereon the Invisible is shed.
She bore it to her distant home,
She laid it by the hive:
To lure the wanderers forth to roam,
That so her store might thrive.
'Twas a wild wish, a thought unblest,
Some evil legend of the west.
She laid it by the hive:
To lure the wanderers forth to roam,
That so her store might thrive.
'Twas a wild wish, a thought unblest,
Some evil legend of the west.
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But lo! at morning tide, a sign
For wondering eyes to trace:
They found above that bread, a shrine
Reared by the harmless race.
They brought their walls from bud and flower,
They built bright roof and beamy tower.
For wondering eyes to trace:
They found above that bread, a shrine
Reared by the harmless race.
They brought their walls from bud and flower,
They built bright roof and beamy tower.
Was it a dream? or did they hear,
Float from those golden cells,
A sound as of some psaltery near,
Or soft and silvery bells;
A low sweet psalm that grieved within,
In mournful memory of the sin.
Float from those golden cells,
A sound as of some psaltery near,
Or soft and silvery bells;
A low sweet psalm that grieved within,
In mournful memory of the sin.
Was it a dream? 'tis sweet no less:
Set not the vision free,
Long let the lingering legend bless
The nation of the bee.
So shall they bear upon their wings
A parable of sacred things.
Set not the vision free,
Long let the lingering legend bless
The nation of the bee.
So shall they bear upon their wings
A parable of sacred things.
So shall they teach, when men blaspheme
Or sacrament or shrine,
That humbler things may fondly dream
Of mysteries divine;
And holier hearts than his may beat
Beneath the bold blasphemer's feet.
Or sacrament or shrine,
That humbler things may fondly dream
Of mysteries divine;
And holier hearts than his may beat
Beneath the bold blasphemer's feet.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |