Some day, perchance, when Horus waxed warm,
The honied-host would sally forth and swarm:
Their movements little Jane would watch with care;
Would call her father, and again repair
Towards the garden: then she knew full well
’Twas time to fetch and swing the tinkling bell,
To save them winging down the orchard-dell.
* * * * *
A stone-throw from this cot, where ran a stream
’Twixt mossy blocks of granite, there would gleam