Classic Poem

A BOY in active search of play or game,
Or mischief, which in truth he deem'd the same,
Pursu'd a bee with well-earn'd honey fraught.
And quickly grasp'd the wish'd-for prize, in thought;
But not so soon o'ertakes it in its flight,
Though in the chace he kept it still in sight.
O'er many a garden, many a mead it flies,
As following still with bad intent he hies.
His aged father saw him thus employ'd,
And how the sond pursuit he still enjoy'd,
Advis'd him to forbear, lest to his cost
He should confess at last his labour lost;
He hears, but heeds not; onward pressing still,
Despising all that would oppose his will,
And while a vain desire could thus engage,
Scorning the dictates of experienc'd age:
O'erweary'd, one last effort while he try'd,
Collecting all the strength false hope supply'd,
As drawing nearer to the promis'd game,
Close to a Hornet's nest unseen he came
These he disturb'd, as carelessly he trod,
And, luckless, rous'd them from their dark abode;
The angry insects, swarming round his head,
Soon caus'd him backwards all his steps to tread;
No more he strives the golden prize to gain,
But home returns, quite raving with his pain.
His father saw him thus in haste retire,
Defeated in his eager fond desire;
He saw, but spake not; yet one look severe,
Was a grave lesson, full sufficient here;
To him a sad remembrance it must bring,
Who lost the honey, and yet felt the sting.