Do not tie my wings, Says the honey-bee; Do not bind my wings, Leave them glad and free. If I fly abroad, If I keep afar, Humming all the day, Where wild blossoms are, 'Tis to bring you sweets, Rich as summer joy, Clear--as gold and glass; The divinest toy That the god's have left, Is the pretty hive, Where a maiden reigns, And the busy thrive. If you bar my way, Your delight is gone, No more honey-gems; From the heather borne; No more tiny thefts, From your neighbor's rose, Who were glad to guess Where its sweetness goes. Let the man of arts Ply his plane and glass; Let the vapors rise, Let the liquor pass; Let the dusky slave Till the southern fields; Not the task of both Such a treasure yields; Honey, Pan ordained, Food for gods and men, Only in my way Shall you store again. Leave me to my will While the bright days glow, While the sleepy flowers Quicken as I go. When the pretty ones Look to me no more, Dead, beneath your feet, Crushed and dabbled o'er; In my narrow cell I will fold my wing; Sink in dark and chill, A forgotten thing. Can you read the song Of the suppliant bee? 'Tis a poet's soul, Asking liberty. II. LIMITATIONS OF BENEVOLENCE. "The beggar boy is none of mine," The reverend doctor strangely said; "I do not walk the streets to pour Chance benedictions on his head. "And heaven I thank who made me so. That toying with my own dear child, I think not on _his_ shivering limbs, _His_ manners vagabond and wild." Good friend, unsay that graceless word! I am a mother crowned with joy, And yet I feel a bosom pang To pass the little starveling boy. His aching flesh, his fevered eyes His piteous stomach, craving meat; His features, nipt of tenderness, And most, his little frozen feet. Oft, by my fireside's ruddy glow, I think, how in some noisome den, Bred up with curses and with blows, He lives unblest of gods or men. I cannot snatch him from his fate, The tribute of my doubting mind Drops, torch-like, in the abyss of ill, That skirts the ways of humankind. But, as my heart's desire would leap To help him, recognized of none, I thank the God who left him this, For many a precious right foregone. My mother, whom I scarcely knew, Bequeathed this bond of love to me; The heart parental thrills for all The children of humanity. EARTH'S WITNESS. BY ALICE B. HAVEN.