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.