Let purling ftreams, and fountains edg'd with moss, And fhallow rills, run trickling through the grass; Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow,
Or palms fhoot up, and shade the streams below;
That when the youth, led by their princes, fhun
The crowded hive, and fport it in the fun,
Refreshing springs may tempt them from the heat,
And fhady coverts yield a cool retreat:
Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs,
Lay twigs across, and bridge it o'er with stones;
That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of wind,
Should dip, or scatter those that lag behind,
Here they may settle on the friendly stone,
And dry their reeking pinions at the fun.
Plant all the flowery banks with lavender,
With ftore of favory fcent the fragrant air,
Let running betony the field o`erspread,
And fountains foke the violet's dewy bed.
Though barks or plaited willows make your hive,
A narrow inlet to their cells contrive;
For colds congele and freeze the liquors up,
And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings drop:
The bees, of both extremes alike afraid,
Their wax around the whistling crannies spread,
And fuck out clammy dews from herbs and flowers,
To smear the chinks, and plaister up the pores :
For this they hoard up glew, whose clinging drops,
Like pitch, or birdlime, hang in stringy ropes.
They oft, 'tis faid, in dark retirements dwell,
And work in fubterraneous caves their cell;
At other times th' industrious infects live
In hollow rocks, or make a tree their hive.
Point all their chinky lodgings round with mud,
And leaves must thinly on your work be ftrow'd;
But let no baleful yew-tree flourish near,
Nor rotten marshes send out steams of mire;
Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle in the fire:
Nor neighbouring caves return the dying found,
Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound.
Things thus prepar'd-
When th' under-world is feiz'd with cold and night,
And fummer here descends in streams of light,
The bees through woods and forests take their flight.
They rifle every flower, and lightly skim
Thy crystal brook, and fip the running stream:
And thus they feed their young with strange delight,
And knead the yielding wax, and work the flimy sweet
But when on high you fee the bees repair,
Borne on the wind, through diftant tracts of air,
And view the winged cloud all blackening from afar ;
While fhady coverts and fresh steams they chuse,
Milfoil and common honey-fuckles bruise,
And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice.
On brazen veffels beat a tinkling found,
And shake the cymbals of the goddess round;
Then all will haßily retreat, and fill
The warm refounding hollow of their cell.
If once two rival kings their right debate,
And factions and cabais embroil the state,
The people's actions will their thoughts declare;
All their hearts tremble, and beat thick with war;
Hoarfe broken founds, like trumpet's harsh a'arms,
Run through the hive, and call them to their arms;
All in a hurry fpread their shivering wings,
And fit their claws, and point their angry ftings:
In crowds before the king's pavilion meet,
And boldly challenge out the foe to fight;
At laft, when all the heavens are warm and fair,
They rush together out, and join the air
Swarms thick, and echoes with the humming war.
All in a firm round cluster mix, and ftrow
With heaps of little corps the earth-bełow;
As thick as hail-ftones from the floor rebound,
Or fhaken acorns rattle on the ground.
No fenfe of danger can their kings control,
Their little bodies lodge a mighty foul:
Each obftinate in arms purfues his blow,
Till thameful flight secures the routed foe.
This hot difpute and all this mighty fray
A little duft flung upward will allay.
But when both kings are settled in their hive,
Mark him who looks the worst, and left he live
Idle at home in eafe and luxury,
The lazy monarch must be doom'd to die;
So let the royal infect rule alone,
And reign without a rival in his throne.
The kings are different : one of better note,
All fpeckt with gold, and many a shining spot,
Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat;
But love of ease, and sloth in one prevails,
That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails:
The people's looks are different as their kings ;
Some fparkle bright, and glitter in their wings;
Others look loathfom and diseas'd with floth,
Like a faint traveller whose dusty mouth
Grows dry with heat, and spits a maukish froth.-
The firft are beft-
From their o'erflowing combs, you'll often prefs
Pure luscious sweets that mingling in the glass
Correct the harshness of the racy juice,...
And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse.
But when they sport abroad, and rove from home,
And leave the cooling hive, and quit th' unfinith'd comb;
Their airy ramblings are with ease confin'd,
Clip their king's wings, and if they stay behind
No bold ufurper dares invade their right,
Nor found a march, nor give the fign for flight.
Let flowery banks entice them to their cells,
And gardens all perfum'd with native smells;
Where carv'd Priapus has his fix'd abode,
The robber's terror, and the scare-crow god.
Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill
Transplant, and nurse them in the neighbouring foil.
Set fruit-trees round, nor e'er indulge thy floth,
But water them, and urge their fhady growth.
And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er,
And striking fail, and making to the shore,
I'd fhew what art the gardener's toils require,
Why rofy Pæstum blushes twice a year :
What ftreams the verdant fuccory supply,
And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry ;-
What with a chearful green does parsly grace,
And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twisted
Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o'er,
Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore;
Nor daffodils, that late from earth's flow womb
Unrumple their fwoln buds, and how their yellowbloom.
For once I faw in the Tarentine vale,
Where flow Galefus drencht the washy foil,
An old Corycian yeoman, who had got
A few neglected acres to his lot,
Where neither corn nor pafture grac'd the field,
Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield;
But favory herbs among the thorns were found,
Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown'd,
And drooping lilies whiten'd all the ground.
Bleft with these riches he could empires flight,
And when he refted from his toils at night,
The earth unpurchas'd dainties would afford,
And his own garden furnish out his board :
The fpring did firft his opening rofes biow,
First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough.
When piercing colds had burft the brittle stone,
And freezing rivers stiffen'd as they run,
He then would prune the tendereft of his trees,
Chide the late fpring, and lingering weftern breeze :
His bees firft fwarm'd, and made his veffels foam
With the rich fqueezing of the juicy comb.
Here lindons and the fappy pine increas'd;
Here, when gay flowers his fmiling orchard dreft,
|