England a coward! O thou five foot five
Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest!
Is she not girt with glory and alive
To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive?
X.
Thou art a bee,—a bright, a golden thing
With too much honey; and the taste thereof
Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting
Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing.
XI.