But who for milk hath longing, must himselfCarry lucerne and lotus-leaves enowWith salt herbs to the cote, whence more they loveThe streams, more stretch their udders, and give backA subtle taste of saltness in the milk.Many there be who from their mothers keepThe new-born kids, and straightway bind their mouthsWith iron-tipped muzzles. What they milk at dawn,Or in the daylight hours, at night they press;What darkling or at sunset, this ere mornThey bear away in baskets—for to townThe shepherd hies him—or with dash of saltJust sprinkle, and lay by for winter use.
Nor be thy dogs last cared for; but alikeSwift Spartan hounds and fierce Molossian feedOn fattening whey. Never, with these to watch,Dread nightly thief afold and ravening wolves,Or Spanish desperadoes in the rear.And oft the shy wild asses thou wilt chase,With hounds, too, hunt the hare, with hounds the doe;Oft from his woodland wallowing-den uprouseThe boar, and scare him with their baying, and drive,And o'er the mountains urge into the toilsSome antlered monster to their chiming cry.
Learn also scented cedar-wood to burnWithin the stalls, and snakes of noxious smellWith fumes of galbanum to drive away.Oft under long-neglected cribs, or lurksA viper ill to handle, that hath fledThe light in terror, or some snake, that wont'Neath shade and sheltering roof to creep, and showerIts bane among the cattle, hugs the ground,Fell scourge of kine. Shepherd, seize stakes, seize stones!And as he rears defiance, and puffs outA hissing throat, down with him! see how lowThat cowering crest is vailed in flight, the while,His midmost coils and final sweep of tailRelaxing, the last fold drags lingering spires.Then that vile worm that in Calabrian gladesUprears his breast, and wreathes a scaly back,His length of belly pied with mighty spots—While from their founts gush any streams, while yetWith showers of Spring and rainy south-winds earthIs moistened, lo! he haunts the pools, and hereHoused in the banks, with fish and chattering frogsCrams the black void of his insatiate maw.Soon as the fens are parched, and earth with heatIs gaping, forth he darts into the dry,Rolls eyes of fire and rages through the fields,Furious from thirst and by the drought dismayed.Me list not then beneath the open heavenTo snatch soft slumber, nor on forest-ridgeLie stretched along the grass, when, slipped his slough,To glittering youth transformed he winds his spires,And eggs or younglings leaving in his lair,Towers sunward, lightening with three-forked tongue.
Of sickness, too, the causes and the signsI'll teach thee. Loathly scab assails the sheep,When chilly showers have probed them to the quick,And winter stark with hoar-frost, or when sweatUnpurged cleaves to them after shearing done,And rough thorns rend their bodies. Hence it isShepherds their whole flock steep in running streams,While, plunged beneath the flood, with drenched fell,The ram, launched free, goes drifting down the tide.Else, having shorn, they smear their bodies o'erWith acrid oil-lees, and mix silver-scumAnd native sulphur and Idaean pitch,Wax mollified with ointment, and therewithSea-leek, strong hellebores, bitumen black.Yet ne'er doth kindlier fortune crown his toil,Than if with blade of iron a man dare lanceThe ulcer's mouth ope: for the taint is fedAnd quickened by confinement; while the swainHis hand of healing from the wound withholds,Or sits for happier signs imploring heaven.Aye, and when inward to the bleater's bonesThe pain hath sunk and rages, and their limbsBy thirsty fever are consumed, 'tis goodTo draw the enkindled heat therefrom, and pierceWithin the hoof-clefts a blood-bounding vein.Of tribes Bisaltic such the wonted use,And keen Gelonian, when to Rhodope
He flies, or Getic desert, and quaffs milkWith horse-blood curdled. Seest one far afieldOft to the shade's mild covert win, or pullThe grass tops listlessly, or hindmost lag,Or, browsing, cast her down amid the plain,At night retire belated and alone;With quick knife check the mischief, ere it creepWith dire contagion through the unwary herd.Less thick and fast the whirlwind scours the mainWith tempest in its wake, than swarm the plaguesOf cattle; nor seize they single lives alone,But sudden clear whole feeding grounds, the flockWith all its promise, and extirpate the breed.Well would he trow it who, so long after, stillHigh Alps and Noric hill-forts should behold,And Iapydian Timavus' fields,Ay, still behold the shepherds' realms a waste,And far and wide the lawns untenanted. Here from distempered heavens erewhile aroseA piteous season, with the full fierce heatOf autumn glowed, and cattle-kindreds allAnd all wild creatures to destruction gave,Tainted the pools, the fodder charged with bane.Nor simple was the way of death, but whenHot thirst through every vein impelled had drawnTheir wretched limbs together, anon o'erflowedA watery flux, and all their bones piecemealSapped by corruption to itself absorbed.Oft in mid sacrifice to heaven—the whiteWool-woven fillet half wreathed about his brow—Some victim, standing by the altar, thereBetwixt the loitering carles a-dying fell:Or, if betimes the slaughtering priest had struck,Nor with its heaped entrails blazed the pile,Nor seer to seeker thence could answer yield;Nay, scarce the up-stabbing knife with blood was stained,Scarce sullied with thin gore the surface-sand.Hence die the calves in many a pasture fair,Or at full cribs their lives' sweet breath resign;Hence on the fawning dog comes madness, henceRacks the sick swine a gasping cough that chokesWith swelling at the jaws: the conquering steed,Uncrowned of effort and heedless of the sward,Faints, turns him from the springs, and paws the earthWith ceaseless hoof: low droop his ears, wherefromBursts fitful sweat, a sweat that waxes coldUpon the dying beast; the skin is dry,And rigidly repels the handler's touch.These earlier signs they give that presage doom.But, if the advancing plague 'gin fiercer grow,Then are their eyes all fire, deep-drawn their breath,At times groan-laboured: with long sobbing heaveTheir lowest flanks; from either nostril streamsBlack blood; a rough tongue clogs the obstructed jaws.'Twas helpful through inverted horn to pourDraughts of the wine-god down; sole way it seemedTo save the dying: soon this too proved their bane,And, reinvigorate but with frenzy's fire,Even at death's pinch—the gods some happier fateDeal to the just, such madness to their foes—Each with bared teeth his own limbs mangling tore.See! as he smokes beneath the stubborn share,The bull drops, vomiting foam-dabbled gore,And heaves his latest groans. Sad goes the swain,Unhooks the steer that mourns his fellow's fate,And in mid labour leaves the plough-gear fast.Nor tall wood's shadow, nor soft sward may stirThat heart's emotion, nor rock-channelled flood,More pure than amber speeding to the plain:But see! his flanks fail under him, his eyesAre dulled with deadly torpor, and his neckSinks to the earth with drooping weight.
What nowBesteads him toil or service? to have turnedThe heavy sod with ploughshare? And yet theseNe'er knew the Massic wine-god's baneful boon,Nor twice replenished banquets: but on leavesThey fare, and virgin grasses, and their cupsAre crystal springs and streams with running tired,Their healthful slumbers never broke by care.Then only, say they, through that country sideFor Juno's rites were cattle far to seek,And ill-matched buffaloes the chariots drewTo their high fanes. So, painfully with rakesThey grub the soil, aye, with their very nailsDig in the corn-seeds, and with strained neckO'er the high uplands drag the creaking wains.No wolf for ambush pries about the pen,Nor round the flock prowls nightly; pain more sharpSubdues him: the shy deer and fleet-foot stagsWith hounds now wander by the haunts of menVast ocean's offspring, and all tribes that swim,On the shore's confine the wave washes up,Like shipwrecked bodies: seals, unwonted there,Flee to the rivers. Now the viper dies,For all his den's close winding, and with scalesErect the astonied water-worms. The airBrooks not the very birds, that headlong fall,And leave their life beneath the soaring cloud.Moreover now nor change of fodder serves,And subtlest cures but injure; then were foiledThe masters, Chiron sprung from Phillyron,And Amythaon's son Melampus. See!From Stygian darkness launched into the lightComes raging pale Tisiphone; she drivesDisease and fear before her, day by dayStill rearing higher that all-devouring head.With bleat of flocks and lowings thick resoundRivers and parched banks and sloping heights.At last in crowds she slaughters them, she chokesThe very stalls with carrion-heaps that rotIn hideous corruption, till men learnWith earth to cover them, in pits to hide.For e'en the fells are useless; nor the fleshWith water may they purge, or tame with fire,Nor shear the fleeces even, gnawed through and throughWith foul disease, nor touch the putrid webs;But, had one dared the loathly weeds to try,Red blisters and an unclean sweat o'erranHis noisome limbs, till, no long tarriance made,The fiery curse his tainted frame devoured.
Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I nowTake up the tale. Upon this theme no lessLook thou, Maecenas, with indulgent eye.A marvellous display of puny powers,High-hearted chiefs, a nation's history,Its traits, its bent, its battles and its clans,All, each, shall pass before you, while I sing.Slight though the poet's theme, not slight the praise,So frown not heaven, and Phoebus hear his call.
First find your bees a settled sure abode,Where neither winds can enter (winds blow backThe foragers with food returning home)Nor sheep and butting kids tread down the flowers,Nor heifer wandering wide upon the plainDash off the dew, and bruise the springing blades.Let the gay lizard too keep far aloofHis scale-clad body from their honied stalls,And the bee-eater, and what birds beside,And Procne smirched with blood upon the breastFrom her own murderous hands. For these roam wideWasting all substance, or the bees themselvesStrike flying, and in their beaks bear home, to glutThose savage nestlings with the dainty prey.But let clear springs and moss-green pools be near,And through the grass a streamlet hurrying run,Some palm-tree o'er the porch extend its shade,Or huge-grown oleaster, that in Spring,Their own sweet Spring-tide, when the new-made chiefsLead forth the young swarms, and, escaped their comb,The colony comes forth to sport and play,The neighbouring bank may lure them from the heat,Or bough befriend with hospitable shade.O'er the mid-waters, whether swift or still,Cast willow-branches and big stones enow,Bridge after bridge, where they may footing findAnd spread their wide wings to the summer sun,If haply Eurus, swooping as they pause,Have dashed with spray or plunged them in the deep.And let green cassias and far-scented thymes,And savory with its heavy-laden breathBloom round about, and violet-beds hard bySip sweetness from the fertilizing springs.For the hive's self, or stitched of hollow bark,Or from tough osier woven, let the doorsBe strait of entrance; for stiff winter's coldCongeals the honey, and heat resolves and thaws,To bees alike disastrous; not for naughtSo haste they to cement the tiny poresThat pierce their walls, and fill the crevicesWith pollen from the flowers, and glean and keepTo this same end the glue, that binds more fastThan bird-lime or the pitch from Ida's pines.Oft too in burrowed holes, if fame be true,They make their cosy subterranean home,And deeply lodged in hollow rocks are found,Or in the cavern of an age-hewn tree.Thou not the less smear round their crannied cribsWith warm smooth mud-coat, and strew leaves above;But near their home let neither yew-tree grow,Nor reddening crabs be roasted, and mistrustDeep marish-ground and mire with noisome smell,Or where the hollow rocks sonorous ring,And the word spoken buffets and rebounds.
What more? When now the golden sun has putWinter to headlong flight beneath the world,And oped the doors of heaven with summer ray,Forthwith they roam the glades and forests o'er,Rifle the painted flowers, or sip the streams,Light-hovering on the surface. Hence it isWith some sweet rapture, that we know not of,Their little ones they foster, hence with skillWork out new wax or clinging honey mould.So when the cage-escaped hosts you seeFloat heavenward through the hot clear air, untilYou marvel at yon dusky cloud that spreadsAnd lengthens on the wind, then mark them well;For then 'tis ever the fresh springs they seekAnd bowery shelter: hither must you bringThe savoury sweets I bid, and sprinkle them,Bruised balsam and the wax-flower's lowly weed,And wake and shake the tinkling cymbals heardBy the great Mother: on the anointed spotsThemselves will settle, and in wonted wiseSeek of themselves the cradle's inmost depth.
But if to battle they have hied them forth—For oft 'twixt king and king with uproar direFierce feud arises, and at once from farYou may discern what passion sways the mob,And how their hearts are throbbing for the strife;Hark! the hoarse brazen note that warriors knowChides on the loiterers, and the ear may catchA sound that mocks the war-trump's broken blasts;Then in hot haste they muster, then flash wings,Sharpen their pointed beaks and knit their thews,And round the king, even to his royal tent,Throng rallying, and with shouts defy the foe.So, when a dry Spring and clear space is given,Forth from the gates they burst, they clash on high;A din arises; they are heaped and rolledInto one mighty mass, and headlong fall,Not denselier hail through heaven, nor pelting soRains from the shaken oak its acorn-shower.Conspicuous by their wings the chiefs themselvesPress through the heart of battle, and displayA giant's spirit in each pigmy frame,Steadfast no inch to yield till these or thoseThe victor's ponderous arm has turned to flight.Such fiery passions and such fierce assaultsA little sprinkled dust controls and quells.
And now, both leaders from the field recalled,Who hath the worser seeming, do to death,Lest royal waste wax burdensome, but letHis better lord it on the empty throne.One with gold-burnished flakes will shine like fire,For twofold are their kinds, the nobler he,Of peerless front and lit with flashing scales;That other, from neglect and squalor foul,Drags slow a cumbrous belly. As with kings,So too with people, diverse is their mould,Some rough and loathly, as when the wayfarerScapes from a whirl of dust, and scorched with heatSpits forth the dry grit from his parched mouth:The others shine forth and flash with lightning-gleam,Their backs all blazoned with bright drops of goldSymmetric: this the likelier breed; from these,When heaven brings round the season, thou shalt strainSweet honey, nor yet so sweet as passing clear,And mellowing on the tongue the wine-god's fire.
But when the swarms fly aimlessly abroad,Disport themselves in heaven and spurn their cells,Leaving the hive unwarmed, from such vain playMust you refrain their volatile desires,Nor hard the task: tear off the monarchs' wings;While these prove loiterers, none beside will dareMount heaven, or pluck the standards from the camp.Let gardens with the breath of saffron flowersAllure them, and the lord of Hellespont,Priapus, wielder of the willow-scythe,Safe in his keeping hold from birds and thieves.And let the man to whom such cares are dearHimself bring thyme and pine-trees from the heights,And strew them in broad belts about their home;No hand but his the blistering task should ply,Plant the young slips, or shed the genial showers. 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.”