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The few diseas'd survivors hang before
Their sickly cells, and droop about the door,
Or slowly in their hives their limbs unfold,
Shrunk up with hunger, and benumb'd with cold;
In drawling hums, the feeble insects grieve,
And doleful buzzes echo thro' the hive,

Like winds that softly murmur thro' 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 famish'd swarm to eat,
And gently reconcile 'em to their meat.
Mix juice of galls, and wine, that grow in time
Condens'd by fire, and thicken to a slime.
To these dry'd roses, thyme and centry join,
And raisins, ripen'd on the Psythian vine.

Besides, there grows a flow'r in marshy ground,

Its name Amellus, easy to be found;

A mighty spring works in its root, and cleaves
The sprouting stalk, and shews itself in leaves:
The flow'r itself is of a golden hue,

The leaves inclining to a darker blue;

The leaves shoot thick about the flow'r, and grow
Into a bush, and shade the turf below:
The plant in holy garlands often twines
The altars' posts, and beautifies the shrines;
Its taste is sharp, in vales new-shorn it grows,
Where Mella's stream in watry mazes flows.
Take plenty of its roots, and boil 'em well
In wine, and heap 'em up before the cell.

But if the whole stock fail, and none survive;
To raise new people, and recruit the hive,
I'll here the great experiment declare,

That spread th' Arcadian shepherd's name so far.
How bees from blood of slaughter'd bulls have fled,
And swarms amidst the red corruption bred.

For where th' Egyptians yearly see their bounds
Refresh'd with floods, and sail about their grounds,
Where Persia borders, and the rolling Nile
Drives swiftly down the swarthy Indians' soil,
'Till into seven it multiplies its stream,
And fattens Egypt with a fruitful slime :

In this last practice all their hope remains,

And long experience justifies their pains.

First then a close contracted space of ground, With streighten❜d walls and low-built roof they found; A narrow shelving light is next assign'd

To all the quarters, one to every wind :

Through these the glancing rays obliquely pierce:
Hither they lead a bull that's young and fierce,
When two-years growth of horn he proudly shows,
And shakes the comely terrors of his brows:
His nose and mouth, the avenues of breath,
They muzzle up, and beat his limbs to death;
With violence to life and stifling pain
He flings and spurns, and tries to snort in vain,
Loud heavy mows fall thick on ev'ry side,
'Till his bruis'd bowels burst within the hide,
When dead, they leave him rotting on the ground,
With branches, thyme and cassia, strow'd around.
All this is done, when first the western breeze
Becalms the year, and smooths the troubled seas;

Before the chattering swallow builds her nest,
Or fields in spring's embroidery are drest.
Meanwhile the tainted juice ferments within,
And quickens, as it works: And now are see
A wond'rous swarm, that o'er the carcass crawls,
Of shapeless, rude, unfinish'd animals.

No legs at first the insect's weight sustain,

At length it moves its new-made limbs with pain;
Now strikes the air with quiv'ring wings, and tries
To lift its body up, and learns to rise;

Now bending thighs and gilded wings it wears
Full grown, and all the bee at length appears;
From every side the fruitful carcass pours
Its swarming brood, as thick as summer-show'rs,
Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows,
When twanging strings first shoot 'em on the foes.
Thus have I sung the nature of the bee;

While Cæsar, tow'ring to divinity,

The frighted Indians with his thunder aw'd,
And claim'd their homage, and commenc'd a god

I flourish'd all the while in arts of peace,

Retir'd and shelter'd in inglorious ease:
I who before the songs of shepherds made,
When gay and young my rural lays I play'd
And set my Tityrus beneath his shade.



LOST in the gloomy horror of the night

We struck upon the coast where Etna lies,
Horrid and waste, its entrails fraught with fire,
That now casts out dark fumes and pitchy clouds,
Vast showers of ashes hov'ring in the smoke;
Now belches molten stones and ruddy flame
Incenst, or tears up mountains by the roots,
Or slings a broken rock aloft in air.

The bottom works with smother'd fire involv'd
In pestilential vapours, stench and smoke.

'Tis said, that thunder-struck Enceladus
Groveling beneath th' incumbent mountain's weight,
Lyes stretch'd supine, eternal prey of flames;
And when he heaves against the burning load,
Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs,

A sudden earthquake shoots through all the isle,
And Etna thunders dreadful under ground,

[1 These imitations of celebrated authors were favourite exercises with Pope, who was much more successful in them than his great rival. Hurd's "very imperfectly," is unquestionably just; but his "stiffness and rigour" of Milton's style will probably be classed with his estimate of Shakspeare in the first note on Cato.-G.]

" Milton's stile imitated. Very imperfectly. What we find, is the stiffness and rigour of Milton's stile, somewhat eased and suppled by the grace of Mr Addison's, but without the numbers or the force of that great poet

Then pours out smoke in wreathing curls convolv'd, And shades the sun's bright orb, and blots out day.

Here in the shelter of the woods we lodg'd,

And frighted heard strange sounds and dismal yells,
Nor saw from whence they came; for all the night
A murky storm deep louring o'er our heads.
Hung imminent, that with impervious gloom
Oppos'd itself to Cynthia's silver ray,

And shaded all beneath. But now the sun
With orient beams had chas'd the dewy night
From earth and heav'n; all nature stood disclos'd:
When looking on the neighb'ring woods we saw
The ghastly visage of a man unknown,

An uncouth feature, meagre, pale, and wild;
Affliction's foul and terrible dismay

Sate in his looks, his face impair'd and worn
With marks of famine, speaking sore distress;
His locks were tangled, and his shaggy beard
Matted with filth; in all things else a Greek.

He first advanc'd in haste; but, when he saw
Trojans and Trojan arms, in mid career
Stopt short, he back recoil'd as one surpriz'd:
But soon recovering speed, he ran, he flew
Precipitant, and thus with piteous cries.
Our ears assail'd: "By heav'n's eternal fires,
By ev'ry god that sits enthron'd on high,
By this good light, relieve a wretch forlorn,
And bear me hence to any distant shore,
So I may shun this savage race accurst.
'Tis true I fought among the Greeks that late
With sword and fire o'erturn'd Neptunian Troy
And laid the labours of the gods in dust;

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