And I myself, were I not even nowFurling my sails, and, nigh the journey's end,Eager to turn my vessel's prow to shore,Perchance would sing what careful husbandryMakes the trim garden smile; of Paestum too,Whose roses bloom and fade and bloom again;How endives glory in the streams they drink,And green banks in their parsley, and how the gourdTwists through the grass and rounds him to paunch;Nor of Narcissus had my lips been dumb,That loiterer of the flowers, nor supple-stemmedAcanthus, with the praise of ivies pale,And myrtles clinging to the shores they love.For 'neath the shade of tall Oebalia's towers,Where dark Galaesus laves the yellowing fields,An old man once I mind me to have seen—From Corycus he came—to whom had fallenSome few poor acres of neglected land,And they nor fruitful' neath the plodding steer,Meet for the grazing herd, nor good for vines.Yet he, the while his meagre garden-herbsAmong the thorns he planted, and all roundWhite lilies, vervains, and lean poppy set,In pride of spirit matched the wealth of kings,And home returning not till night was late,With unbought plenty heaped his board on high.He was the first to cull the rose in spring,He the ripe fruits in autumn; and ere yetWinter had ceased in sullen ire to riveThe rocks with frost, and with her icy bitCurb in the running waters, there was hePlucking the rathe faint hyacinth, while he chidSummer's slow footsteps and the lagging West.Therefore he too with earliest brooding beesAnd their full swarms o'erflowed, and first was heTo press the bubbling honey from the comb;Lime-trees were his, and many a branching pine;And all the fruits wherewith in early bloomThe orchard-tree had clothed her, in full taleHung there, by mellowing autumn perfected.He too transplanted tall-grown elms a-row,Time-toughened pear, thorns bursting with the plumAnd plane now yielding serviceable shadeFor dry lips to drink under: but these things,Shut off by rigorous limits, I pass by,And leave for others to sing after me. Come, then, I will unfold the natural powersGreat Jove himself upon the bees bestowed,The boon for which, led by the shrill sweet strainsOf the Curetes and their clashing brass,They fed the King of heaven in Dicte's cave.Alone of all things they receive and holdCommunity of offspring, and they houseTogether in one city, and beneathThe shelter of majestic laws they live;And they alone fixed home and country know,And in the summer, warned of coming cold,Make proof of toil, and for the general storeHoard up their gathered harvesting. For someWatch o'er the victualling of the hive, and theseBy settled order ply their tasks afield;And some within the confines of their homePlant firm the comb's first layer, Narcissus' tear,And sticky gum oozed from the bark of trees,Then set the clinging wax to hang therefrom.Others the while lead forth the full-grown young,Their country's hope, and others press and packThe thrice repured honey, and stretch their cellsTo bursting with the clear-strained nectar sweet.Some, too, the wardship of the gates befalls,Who watch in turn for showers and cloudy skies,Or ease returning labourers of their load,Or form a band and from their precincts driveThe drones, a lazy herd. How glows the work!How sweet the honey smells of perfumed thymeLike the Cyclopes, when in haste they forgeFrom the slow-yielding ore the thunderbolts,Some from the bull's-hide bellows in and outLet the blasts drive, some dip i' the water-troughThe sputtering metal: with the anvil's weightGroans Etna: they alternately in timeWith giant strength uplift their sinewy arms,Or twist the iron with the forceps' grip—Not otherwise, to measure small with great,The love of getting planted in their breastsGoads on the bees, that haunt old Cecrops' heights,Each in his sphere to labour. The old have chargeTo keep the town, and build the walled combs,And mould the cunning chambers; but the youth,Their tired legs packed with thyme, come labouring homeBelated, for afar they range to feedOn arbutes and the grey-green willow-leaves,And cassia and the crocus blushing red,Glue-yielding limes, and hyacinths dusky-eyed.One hour for rest have all, and one for toil:With dawn they hurry from the gates—no roomFor loiterers there: and once again, when evenNow bids them quit their pasturing on the plain,Then homeward make they, then refresh their strength:A hum arises: hark! they buzz and buzzAbout the doors and threshold; till at lengthSafe laid to rest they hush them for the night,And welcome slumber laps their weary limbs. But from the homestead not too far they fare,When showers hang like to fall, nor, east winds nigh,Confide in heaven, but 'neath the city wallsSafe-circling fetch them water, or essayBrief out-goings, and oft weigh-up tiny stones,As light craft ballast in the tossing tide,Wherewith they poise them through the cloudy vast.This law of life, too, by the bees obeyed,Will move thy wonder, that nor sex with sexYoke they in marriage, nor yield their limbs to love,Nor know the pangs of labour, but aloneFrom leaves and honied herbs, the mothers, each,Gather their offspring in their mouths, aloneSupply new kings and pigmy commonwealth,And their old court and waxen realm repair.Oft, too, while wandering, against jagged stonesTheir wings they fray, and 'neath the burden yieldTheir liberal lives: so deep their love of flowers,So glorious deem they honey's proud acquist.Therefore, though each a life of narrow span,Ne'er stretched to summers more than seven, befalls,Yet deathless doth the race endure, and stillPerennial stands the fortune of their line,From grandsire unto grandsire backward told.Moreover, not Aegyptus, nor the realmOf boundless Lydia, no, nor Parthia's hordes,Nor Median Hydaspes, to their kingDo such obeisance: lives the king unscathed,One will inspires the million: is he dead,Snapt is the bond of fealty; they themselvesRavage their toil-wrought honey, and rend amainTheir own comb's waxen trellis. He is the lordOf all their labour; him with awful eyeThey reverence, and with murmuring throngs surround,In crowds attend, oft shoulder him on high,Or with their bodies shield him in the fight,And seek through showering wounds a glorious death. Led by these tokens, and with such traits to guide,Some say that unto bees a share is givenOf the Divine Intelligence, and to drinkPure draughts of ether; for God permeates all—Earth, and wide ocean, and the vault of heaven—From whom flocks, herds, men, beasts of every kind,Draw each at birth the fine essential flame;Yea, and that all things hence to Him return,Brought back by dissolution, nor can deathFind place: but, each into his starry rank,Alive they soar, and mount the heights of heaven.
If now their narrow home thou wouldst unseal,And broach the treasures of the honey-house,With draught of water first toment thy lips,And spread before thee fumes of trailing smoke.Twice is the teeming produce gathered in,Twofold their time of harvest year by year,Once when Taygete the Pleiad upliftsHer comely forehead for the earth to see,With foot of scorn spurning the ocean-streams,Once when in gloom she flies the watery Fish,And dips from heaven into the wintry wave.Unbounded then their wrath; if hurt, they breatheVenom into their bite, cleave to the veinsAnd let the sting lie buried, and leave their livesBehind them in the wound. But if you dreadToo rigorous a winter, and would fainTemper the coming time, and their bruised heartsAnd broken estate to pity move thy soul,Yet who would fear to fumigate with thyme,Or cut the empty wax away? for oftInto their comb the newt has gnawed unseen,And the light-loathing beetles crammed their bed,And he that sits at others' board to feast,The do-naught drone; or 'gainst the unequal foeSwoops the fierce hornet, or the moth's fell tribe;Or spider, victim of Minerva's spite,Athwart the doorway hangs her swaying net.The more impoverished they, the keenlier allTo mend the fallen fortunes of their raceWill nerve them, fill the cells up, tier on tier,And weave their granaries from the rifled flowers.
Now, seeing that life doth even to bee-folk bringOur human chances, if in dire diseaseTheir bodies' strength should languish—which anonBy no uncertain tokens may be told—Forthwith the sick change hue; grim leanness marsTheir visage; then from out the cells they bearForms reft of light, and lead the mournful pomp;Or foot to foot about the porch they hang,Or within closed doors loiter, listless allFrom famine, and benumbed with shrivelling cold.Then is a deep note heard, a long-drawn hum,As when the chill South through the forests sighs,As when the troubled ocean hoarsely boomsWith back-swung billow, as ravening tide of fireSurges, shut fast within the furnace-walls.Then do I bid burn scented galbanum,And, honey-streams through reeden troughs instilled,Challenge and cheer their flagging appetiteTo taste the well-known food; and it shall bootTo mix therewith the savour bruised from gall,And rose-leaves dried, or must to thickness boiledBy a fierce fire, or juice of raisin-grapesFrom Psithian vine, and with its bitter smellCentaury, and the famed Cecropian thyme.There is a meadow-flower by country folkHight star-wort; 'tis a plant not far to seek;For from one sod an ample growth it rears,Itself all golden, but girt with plenteous leaves,Where glory of purple shines through violet gloom.With chaplets woven hereof full oft are deckedHeaven's altars: harsh its taste upon the tongue;Shepherds in vales smooth-shorn of nibbling flocksBy Mella's winding waters gather it.The roots of this, well seethed in fragrant wine,Set in brimmed baskets at their doors for food. But if one's whole stock fail him at a stroke,Nor hath he whence to breed the race anew,'Tis time the wondrous secret to discloseTaught by the swain of Arcady, even howThe blood of slaughtered bullocks oft has borneBees from corruption. I will trace me backTo its prime source the story's tangled thread,And thence unravel. For where thy happy folk,Canopus, city of Pellaean fame,Dwell by the Nile's lagoon-like overflow,And high o'er furrows they have called their ownSkim in their painted wherries; where, hard by,The quivered Persian presses, and that floodWhich from the swart-skinned Aethiop bears him down,Swift-parted into sevenfold branching mouthsWith black mud fattens and makes Aegypt green,That whole domain its welfare's hope secureRests on this art alone. And first is chosenA strait recess, cramped closer to this end,Which next with narrow roof of tiles atop'Twixt prisoning walls they pinch, and add heretoFrom the four winds four slanting window-slits.Then seek they from the herd a steer, whose hornsWith two years' growth are curling, and stop fast,Plunge madly as he may, the panting mouthAnd nostrils twain, and done with blows to death,Batter his flesh to pulp i' the hide yet whole,And shut the doors, and leave him there to lie.But 'neath his ribs they scatter broken boughs,With thyme and fresh-pulled cassias: this is doneWhen first the west winds bid the waters flow,Ere flush the meadows with new tints, and ereThe twittering swallow buildeth from the beams.Meanwhile the juice within his softened bonesHeats and ferments, and things of wondrous birth,Footless at first, anon with feet and wings,Swarm there and buzz, a marvel to behold;And more and more the fleeting breeze they take,Till, like a shower that pours from summer-clouds,Forth burst they, or like shafts from quivering stringWhen Parthia's flying hosts provoke the fray. Say what was he, what God, that fashioned forthThis art for us, O Muses? of man's skillWhence came the new adventure? From thy vale,Peneian Tempe, turning, bee-bereft,So runs the tale, by famine and disease,Mournful the shepherd Aristaeus stoodFast by the haunted river-head, and thusWith many a plaint to her that bare him cried:“Mother, Cyrene, mother, who hast thy homeBeneath this whirling flood, if he thou sayest,Apollo, lord of Thymbra, be my sire,Sprung from the Gods' high line, why barest thou meWith fortune's ban for birthright? Where is nowThy love to me-ward banished from thy breast?O! wherefore didst thou bid me hope for heaven?Lo! even the crown of this poor mortal life,Which all my skilful care by field and fold,No art neglected, scarce had fashioned forth,Even this falls from me, yet thou call'st me son.Nay, then, arise! With thine own hands pluck upMy fruit-plantations: on the homestead flingPitiless fire; make havoc of my crops;Burn the young plants, and wield the stubborn axeAgainst my vines, if there hath taken theSuch loathing of my greatness.”