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| 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 | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| A sweetness sweeter for his bitter strife | |
| The old-time athlete drew! | |
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