EXCEPT THE STORY OF ARISTÆUS.
Thereal fweets shall next my Muse engage, And this, Mecenas, claims your patronage. Of little creatures wondrous acts I treat, The ranks and mighty leaders of their state, Their laws, employments, and their wars relate. A trifling theme provokes my humble lays : Trifling the theme, not fo the poet's praise, If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine Join in the piece, and make the work divine. First, for your bees a proper station find, That's fenc'd about and shelter'd from the wind; For winds divert them in their flight, and drive The fwarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive. Nor fheep, nor goats, muft pafture near their stores, To trample under foot the springing flowers;
Nor frifking heifers bound about the place,
To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rifing grass :
Nor must the lizard's painted brood appear,
Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow harbour near.
They wafte the fwarms, and as they fly along
Convey the tender morfels to their young,
C
Let purling ftreams, and fountains edg'd with mofs, And fhallow rills, run trickling through the grass; Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow, Or palms shoot up, and shade the streams below; That when the youth, led by their princes, fhun The crowded hive, and sport it in the fun, Refreshing fprings may tempt them from the heat, And fhady coverts yield a cool retreat.
Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs, Lay twigs acrofs, and bridge it o'er with stones ; That if rough ftorms, or fudden blafts of wind, Should dip, or fcatter those that lag behind, Here they may fettle on the friendly ftone, 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 fpread,
And fuck out clammy dews from herbs and flowers,
To smear the chinks, and plaister up the pores:
For this they hoard up glew, whofe 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 strow'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 defcends in ftreams 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 see the bees repair,
Borne on the wind, through distant 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 bruife,
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 haftily retreat, and fill
The warm refounding hollow of their cell.
If once two rival kings their right debate,
And factions and cabals 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 alarms,
Run through the hive, and call them to their arms;
All in a hurry fpread their fhivering 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 last, when all the heavens are warın 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 below;
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 insect 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 fhining spot,
Looks gay, and gliftens in a gilded coat;
But love of eafe, and floth in one prevails,
That fcarce 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 difeas'd with floth,
Like a faint traveller whofe dufty 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 fweets that mingling in the glass
Correct the harthnefs of the racy juice,
And a rich flavour through the wine diffufe.
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 fmells;
Where carv'd Priapus has his fix'd abode,
The robber's terror, and the fcare-crow god.
Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill
Tranfplant, 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 Pæftum blushes twice a year :
What streams the verdant fuccory supply,
And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry ; -
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