A SUMMER SOLILOQUY.

A bee, or not a bee? That is the question.

Whether 'twere better not to mind, and suffer

The stings that every summer are our portion,

Or take the trouble but to move an arm,

And, by opposing, end them. It flies—it creeps,

It creeps, perchance it stings! Then comes the rub,

When we have shuffled off our clothing. Soft,

'Twas but a bluebottle! How sweet it is

To lie like this i' the sun, and think of nought

Save how sweet 'tis to lie, and think of nought;

And that meseems to many wordy sages

Were small refreshment in this windy time.

How many are there who do cheat themselves,

And with themselves the many, that they are

The very vaward leaders of the fray,

The lictors of the pomp of intellect.

Whereas they are the merest driven spray,

The running rabble heralding the march

Impelled by what they herald;—

Who ever glance behind to see which way——

Oh, my prophetick soul! my Aunt Eliza!

[He is stung!