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.