The blood-stained hand imprinted on her breast.
These widely waste, and, seiz’d upon the wing,
To feed their nest, the bee in triumph bring.
But there let pools invite with moss array’d,
Clear fount and rill that purls along the glade,
Palms o’er their porch a grateful gloom extend,
And the wild olive’s shelt’ring boughs defend.
There where new kings the swarms at spring-tide lead,
And bursting myriads gladden all the mead,
Dim banks at noon may lure to cool repose,