IN the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame, So terrible alive, Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, became The wandering wild bees' hive; And he who, lone and naked-handed, tore Those jaws of death apart, In after time drew forth their honeyed store To strengthen his strong heart. Dead seemed the legend: but it only slept To wake beneath our sky; Just on the spot whence ravening Treason crept Back to its lair to die, Bleeding and torn from Freedom's mountain bounds, A stained and shattered drum Is now the hive where, on their flowery rounds, The wild bees go and come. Unchallenged by a ghostly sentinel, They wander wide and far, Along green hillsides, sown with shot and shell, Through vales once choked with war. The low reveille of their battle-drum Disturbs no morning prayer: With deeper peace in summer noons their hum Fills all the drowsy air. And Samson's riddle is our own to-day, Of sweetness from the strong, Of union, peace, and freedom plucked away From the rent jaws of wrong. From Treason's death we draw a purer life, As, from the beast he slew, A sweetness sweeter for his bitter strife The old-time athlete drew! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION by ROBERT BROWNING REMEMBERED MUSIC; A FRAGMENT by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL GRATITUDE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT GORMFLAITH'S SONG, FR. KING LEAR'S WIFE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY SURSUM CORDA by MARGARET CARROLL BRADY FLAME LILIES by CHRISTINE F. BRONSON |