Nor daffodils, that late from earth's slow womb

Unrumple their swoln buds, and show their yellow bloom.
For once I saw in the Tarentine vale,
Where slow Galesus drencht the washy soil,
An old Corician yeoman, who had got
A few neglected acres to his lot,

Where neither corn nor pasture graced the field,
Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield;

But savoury herbs among the thorns were found,
Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crowned,
And drooping lilies whitened all the ground.
Blest with these riches he could empires slight,
And when he rested from his toils at night,
The earth unpurchased dainties would afford,
And his own garden furnished out his board:
The spring did first his opening roses blow,1
First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough.
When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone,
And freezing rivers stiffened as they run,

He then would prune the tenderest of his trees,
Chide the late spring, and lingering western breeze:
His bees first swarmed, and made his vessels foam
With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb.
Here lindens and the sappy pine increased;
Here, when gay flowers his smiling orchard drest,
As many blossoms as the spring could show,
So many dangling apples mellowed on the bough.
In rows his elms and knotty pear-trees bloom,
And thorns ennobled now to bear a plum,
And spreading plane-trees, where, supinely laid,
He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the shade.
But these for want of room I must omit,

And leave for future poets to recite.

Now I'll proceed their natures to declare, Which Jove himself did on the bees confer;

Roses blow.] Not usual or exact to use the verb blow actively. Yet Milton speaks of banks that blow flowers. (Mask at Ludlow Castle, page 993.) And, indeed, it is not easy to say how far this licentious construction, if sparingly used, si sumpta pudenter, may be allowed, especially in the higher poetry. The reason is, that it takes the expression out of the tameness of prose, and pleases by its novelty, more than it disgusts by its irregularity and whatever pleases in this degree, is poetical.

Because, invited by the timbrel's sound,
Lodged in a cave, the almighty babe they found,
And the young god nurst kindly under-ground.
Of all the winged inhabitants of air,

These only make their young the public care;
In well-disposed societies they live,
And laws and statutes regulate their hive;
Nor stray like others unconfined abroad,
But know set stations, and a fixed abode :
Each provident of cold in summer flies
Through fields and woods, to seek for new supplies,
And in the common stock unlades his thighs.
Some watch the food, some in the meadows ply,
Taste every bud, and suck each blossom dry;
Whilst others, labouring in their cells at home,
Temper Narcissus' clammy tears with gum,
For the first ground-work of the golden comb;
On this they found their waxen works, and raise
The yellow fabric on its gluey base.

Some educate the young, or hatch the seed
With vital warmth, and future nations breed;
Whilst others thicken all the slimy dews,
And into purest honey work the juice;
Then fill the hollows of the comb, and swell
With luscious nectar every flowing cell.

By turns they watch, by turns with curious eyes
Survey the heavens, and search the clouded skies,

To find out breeding storms, and tell what tempests rise.
By turns they ease the loaden swarms, or drive

The drone, a lazy insect, from their hive.

The work is warmly plied through all the cells,

And strong with thyme the new-made honey smells.
So in their caves the brawny Cyclops sweat,

When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge they beat,
And all the unshapen thunder-bolt complete;
Alternately their hammers rise and fall;

Whilst griping tongs turn round the glowing ball.
With puffing bellows some the flames increase,
And some in waters dip the hissing mass;

Their beaten anvils dreadfully resound,

And Ætna shakes all o'er, and thunders under-ground.

Thus, if great things we may with small compare, The busy swarms their different labours share. Desire of profit urges all degrees;

The aged insects, by experience wise,

Attend the comb, and fashion every part,

And shape the waxen fret-work out with art:
The young at night, returning from their toils,

Bring home their thighs clogged with the meadows' spoils.
On lavender and saffron buds they feed,

On bending osiers and the balmy reed,
From purple violets and the teile they bring
Their gathered sweets, and rifle all the spring.
All work together, all together rest,

The morning still renews their labours past;
Then all rush out, their different tasks pursue,
Sit on the bloom, and suck the ripening dew;
Again, when evening warns them to their home,
With weary wings and heavy thighs they come,
And crowd about the chink, and mix a drowsy hum.
Into their cells at length they gently creep,
There all the night their peaceful station keep,
Wrapt up in silence, and dissolved in sleep.
None range abroad when winds and storms are nigh,
Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky,
But make small journeys with a careful wing,
And fly to water at a neighbouring spring;
And lest their airy bodies should be cast
In restless whirls, the sport of every blast,
They carry stones to poise them in their flight,
As ballast keeps the unsteady vessel right.

But, of all customs that the bees can boast,
'Tis this may challenge admiration most;
That none will Hymen's softer joys approve,
Nor waste their spirits in luxurious love,
But all a long virginity maintain,

And bring forth young without a mother's pain:
From herbs and flowers they pick each tender bee,
And cull from plants a buzzing progeny;

From these they choose out subjects, and create
A little monarch of the rising state;

Then build wax kingdoms for the infant prince,
And form a palace for his residence.

But often in their journeys, as they fly,
On flints they tear their silken wings, or lie
Grovelling beneath their flowery load, and die.
Thus love of honey can an insect fire,

And in a fly such generous thoughts inspire.
Yet by repeopling their decaying state,

Though seven short springs conclude their vital date,
Their ancient stocks eternally remain,

And in an endless race their children's children reign.
No prostrate vassal of the East can more
With slavish fear his haughty prince adore;
His life unites 'em all; but, when he dies,
All in loud tumults and distractions rise;
They waste their honey and their combs deface,
And wild confusion reigns in every place.

Him all admire, all the great guardian own,

And crowd about his courts, and buzz about his throne.
Oft on their backs their weary prince they bear,
Oft in his cause, embattled in the air,

Pursue a glorious death, in wounds and war.

Some, from such instances as these, have taught, "The bees' extract is heavenly; for they thought The universe alive; and that a soul,

Diffused throughout the matter of the whole,
To all the vast unbounded frame was given,

And ran through earth, and air, and sea, and all the deep of

heaven;

That this first kindled life in man and beast,

Life, that again flows into this at last.

That no compounded animal could die,

But when dissolved, the spirit mounted high,
Dwelt in a star, and settled in the sky."

Whene'er their balmy sweets you mean to seize,
And take the liquid labours of the bees,

Spurt draughts of water from your mouth, and drive
A loathsome cloud of smoke amidst their hive.
Twice in the year their flowery toils begin,
And twice they fetch their dewy harvest in ;
Once, when the lovely Pleiades arise,
And add fresh lustre to the summer skies;
And once, when hastening from the watery sign,
They quit their station, and forbear to shine.

The bees are prone to rage, and often found To perish for revenge, and die upon the wound. Their venomed sting produces aching pains, And swells the flesh, and shoots among the veins. When first a cold hard winter's storms arrive, And threaten death or famine to their hive, If now their sinking state and low affairs Can move your pity, and provoke your cares, Fresh burning thyme before their cells convey, And cut their dry and husky wax away; For often lizards seize the luscious spoils, Or drones, that riot on another's toils: Oft broods of moths infest the hungry swarms, And oft the furious wasp their hive alarms With louder hums, and with unequal arms; Or else the spider at their entrance sets Her snares, and spins her bowels into nets. When sickness reigns, (for they as well as we Feel all the effects of frail mortality,) By certain marks the new disease is seen, Their colour changes, and their looks are thin; Their funeral rites are formed, and every bee With grief attends the sad solemnity; The few diseased survivors hang before Their sickly cells, and droop about the door, Or slowly in their hives their limbs unfold, Shrunk up with hunger, and benumbed with cold; In drawling hums the feeble insects grieve, And doleful buzzes echo through the hive, Like winds that softly murmur through the trees, Like flames pent up, or like retiring seas. Now lay fresh honey near their empty rooms, In troughs of hollow reeds, whilst frying gums Cast round a fragrant mist of spicy fumes. Thus kindly tempt the famished swarm to eat, And gently reconcile 'em to their meat. Mix juice of galls, and wine, that grow in time. Condensed by fire, and thicken to a slime; To these dried roses, thyme, and century join, And raisins, ripened on the Psythian vine.

Besides, there grows a flower in marshy ground, Its name Amellus, easy to be found;