« 이전계속 »
The people's looks are different as their kings;
And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er, And striking sail, and making to the shore, I'd show what art the gardener's toils require, Why rosy pæstum blushes twice a year, What streams the verdant succory supply, And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry; What with a cheerful green does parsley grace, And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twist
ed grass ;
Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o'er,
I saw in the Tarentine vale, [bloom.
the thorns were found, Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown'd, And drooping lilies whiten’d all the ground. Bless'd 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 furnish out his board. The spring did first his opening roses blow, First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough: When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone, And freezing rivers stiffen'd as they run, He then would průne the tenderest of his trees, Chide the late spring and lingering western breeze; His bees first swarm’d, 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 dress'd, As many blossoms as the spring could show, So many dangling apples mellow'd 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,
Now I'll proceed their natures to declare,
Of all the wing’d 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 fix'd abode: Each, provident of cold, in summer flies [plies, Through fields and wodels, to seek for new supAnd in the common stock wlades his thighs. Some watch the food, some in the meadows ply, Taste every bud, add suck gach blossom dry; Whilst others, labouring in their cells at home, Temper Narcissus' clammy tears with gum, For the first groundwork of the golden comb; On this they found their waxen works, and raise The yellow fabric on its glewy 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
By turns they ease the loaden swarms, or drive
So in their caves the brawny Cyclops sweat, When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge they
beat, And all the unshapen thunderbolt 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 clogg'd with the meadows' On lavender and saffron buds they feed, [spoils : On bending osiers and the balmy reed ; From purple violets and the teil they bring Their gather'd 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,
abroad when winds and storms are
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, [date, Though seven short springs conclude their vital Their ancient stocks eternally remain, [reign. And in an endless race their children's children
No prostrate vassal of the East can more With slavish fear his mighty prince adore;