Down the myrtled stairway of the palace,
Ashes on his head,
Came he, through the rose and citron alleys,
In the rough sark of sackcloth habited,
And in a hempen halter—oh! we jested,
Lightly, and we laughed as he was led
To the torture, while the bloom we breasted
Where the grapes grew red.
Oh, so sweet the birds, when he was dying,
Piped to her and me—
Is no room this glad June day for sighing—
He is dead, and she and I go free!
When the sun shall set on all our pleasure
We will mourn him—What, so you decree
We are heartless?—Nay, but in what measure
Do you more than we?
THE BEES OF MYDDLETON MANOR
17th Century
By May Probyn
Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my golden-belted bees:
My little son was seven years old—the mint-flower touched his knees;
Yellow were his curly locks;
Yellow were his stocking-clocks;
His plaything of a sword had a diamond in its hilt;
Where the garden beds lay sunny,
And the bees were making honey,
"For God and the king—to arms! to arms!" the day long would he lilt.
