IN the old Hebrew myth the lion's frame, br So terrible alive, br Bleached by the desert's sun and wind, became br The wandering wild bees' hive; br And he who, lone and naked-handed, tore br Those jaws of death apart, br In after time drew forth their honeyed store br To strengthen his strong heart. br Dead seemed the legend: but it only slept br To wake beneath our sky; br Just on the spot whence ravening Treason crept br Back to its lair to die, br Bleeding and torn from Freedom's mountain bounds, br A stained and shattered drum br Is now the hive where, on their flowery rounds, br The wild bees go and come. br Unchallenged by a ghostly sentinel, br They wander wide and far, br Along green hillsides, sown with shot and shell, br Through vales once choked with war. br The low reveille of their battle-drum br Disturbs no morning prayer; br With deeper peace in summer noons their hum br Fills all the drowsy air. br And Samson's riddle is our own to-day, br Of sweetness from the strong, br Of union, peace, and freedom plucked away br From the rent jaws of wrong.