THE POPPY BEE. 81 



Crimson tap'stry lines the wall, 

 Crimson curtains graceful fall 



Hound the tender nurseling's bed ; 



And beside it, heaped on high, 

 Luscious food, from flow' rets shed, 

 Waits his wants a rich supply. 

 Say, by whom this chamber drest ? 

 Who can be its looked-for guest ? 



None but soft maternal care 

 Such a nursery could prepare ; 



Yet when the nurseling opes his eye, 



Earth alone might seem his mother, 

 For around, beneath, on high, 



Vainly would he seek another : 

 His is far, in fields of air, 

 While he bursts to being there. 



Perhaps she sips her honeyed pleasure, 

 Forgetful of her infant treasure. 

 Yet blame her not, ye lady mothers ! 



She is but a Poppy Bee : 

 Only mind that ye and others 

 Do your duty well as she, 

 Who by loving foresight guided, 

 For her offspring's wants provided. 



THE implied censure of our concluding lines is one which, we 

 really believe few mothers, either lady or lowly, need appro- 

 priate ; for if there be one virtue more prevailing than another 

 with high and mean, civilized and savage, nay, even with bad 

 and good, we should say it was maternal tenderness. What, 

 however, is observed by the worthy Fuller, with regard to the 

 performance of more enlarged charity, may be, in some degree, 

 applicable also to those charities which "begin at home," and 



