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...SURFACES AND MASKS; 30 by CLARENCE MAJOR GARDEN WIRELESS by CARL SANDBURG A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY [MAY 24, 1865] by FRANCIS BRET HARTE EPITAPH (ON A COMMONPLACE PERSON WHO DIED IN BED) by AMY LEVY SONNETS TO LAURA IN LIFE: 109 by PETRARCH O YOU WHOM I OFTEN AND SILENTLY COME by WALT WHITMAN THE SOBBING OF THE BELLS (MIDNIGHT, SEPT. 19-20, 1881) by WALT WHITMAN |