Yon pair of birds that weary roamHave far more cause to grieve then I
Their rest is gone—their peaceful home
Could not escape the schoolboys eye
Their sorrow still its toil resumes
& of their loss they make the best
They chirp again & smooth their plumes
& painful build another nest
No nest have they from night to hide
Then fool to think that I alone
The killing frowns of fate abide
While Ive a cot to call my own
Poor bee that labours hard the hour
In hopes to find some honied store
Vainly peeps in each rifl'd flower
To prove its sweets was rob’d before
Yet still his toil his hopes recruits
& on he hums till setting sun—
O God thou knowst my station suits
& as thou wilt—thy will be done
Toil on poor bee companion sweet
Live on vain world thy joys are small
Compar'd to those I hope to meet
From God my peace, my hope, my all!
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