Let purling streams, and fountains edg'd with mofs,
And fhallow rills, run trickling through the grafs;
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, shun
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 acrofs, and bridge it o'er with stones;
That if rough ftorms, or fudden blasts of wind,
Should dip, or scatter those that lag behind,
Here they may fettle on the friendly stone,
And dry their reeking pinions at the fun.
Plant all the flowery banks with lavender,
With store of favory fcent the fragrant air,
Let running betony the field o'erfpread,
And fountains foke the violet's dewy bed.
Though bark's 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 plaifter up the pores :
For this they hoard up glew, whofe clinging drops,
Like pitch, or birdlime, hang in ftringy ropes.
They oft, 'tis faid, in dark retirements dwell,
And work in fubterraneous caves their cell;

At

At other times th' induftrious 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 sound,
Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound.
Things thus prepar'd-

When th' under-world is seiz'd with cold and night,
And fummer here defcends in streams of light,
The bees through woods and forests take their flight.
They rifle every flower, and lightly skim

Thy crystal brook, and sip the running stream :
And thus they feed their young with strange delight,
And knead the yielding wax, and work the slimy sweet
But when on high you fee 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 fhake 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 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 strow
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 soul :
Each obftinate in arms purfues his blow,
Till shameful 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 ease 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 eafe, and floth in one prevails,
That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails:

}

The

The people's looks are different as their kings;
Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings;
Others look loathfom and difeas'd with floth,
Like a faint traveller whofe dusty mouth
Grows dry with heat, and spits a maukish froth.
The first are beft-

From their o'erflowing combs, you'll often press
Pure luscious fweets that mingling in the glass
Correct the harshness of the racy juice,

And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse.

}

But when they fsport 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 fcare-crow god.
Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill
Tranfplant, and nurfe 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 ftriking fail, and making to the fhore,
I'd fhew what art the gardener's toils require,
Why rofy Pæstum blushes twice a year :
What streams 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

grafs ;

Nor would I pafs the foft 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 fhow 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 pasture 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 first his opening roses blow,
First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough..
When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone,
And freezing rivers ftiffen'd as they run,
He then would prune the tenderest of his trees,
Chide the late spring, and lingering western breeze:
His bees firft fwarm'd, and made his veffels foam:
With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb.
Here lindons and the fappy pine increas'd;.
Here, when gay flowers his smiling orchard drest,

}

A's