There lies, far in the bosom of the seas,
An island fair;
The summer long the patient little bees
Are busy there:
The honey that they gather all year round,
Buzzing from flower to flower,
They hoard it in a quaint bee-hive they've found
In the old Church tower.

Their store is taken every year, nor do
The bees complain;
They know that God will send, next Spring, a new
Supply again.
The produce of their careful gatherings goes
To men in lands abroad,
Who preach “glad tidings of great joy” to those
Who know not God.

Like Jonathan when fainting he did roam
The hungry waste,
How was he quickened when an honeycomb
He did but taste!
So to those weary laborers on lone shores,
This little hive supplies
The amber droppings of its annual stores,
To light their eyes.

Poor Christian! e'en in such small folk as these
A lesson see:
Doth God take such good care for tiny bees,
Yet none for thee?
Then say not, Little-faith, thou hast no power
To gather honey too,
All round thee bloom the flowers, and every flower
Is filled with dew.