THE BEE-KEEPER’S MANUAL. 
Transcends in organs apt the puny fly, 
Her fine-strung feelers, and her glanceful eye 
Set with ten thousand lenses. Not the pile 
By fabled giant raised in Erin’s isle, 
Not Staffa’s crystalled shore, where now, Fingal, 
Roar the hoarse surges through thy columned hall, 
Nor all yon marshalled orbs that ride so high, 
Proclaim more loud a present Deity, 
Than the nice symmetry of these small cells, 
Where on each angle genuine Science dwells, 
And joys to mark through wide creation’s reign 
How close the lessening links of her continued chain.” 
