Let flow'ry banks entice 'em 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 scare-crow god.
Wild Thyme and Pine-trees from their barren hill
Transplant, and nurse 'em in the neighb'ring foil,
Set fruit-trees round, nor e'er indulge thy floth,
But water 'em, and urge their shady growth.
And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er,
And striking sail, and making to the shore,
I'd fhew what art the Gardner's toils require,
Why rofy Paftum blushes twice a year;
What streams the verdant Succory fupply,
And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry;
What with a chearful green does Parily grace,
And writhes the bellying Cucumber along the twisted Nor would I pass the soft Acanthus o'er,
Ivy nor Myrtle-trees that love the fhore;
Nor Daffadils, that late from earth's flow womb
Unrumple their fwoln buds, and show their yellow bloom.
For once I saw in the Tarentine vale,
Where flow Galefus drencht the washy foil,
An old Corician 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 fav'ry herbs among the thorns were found,
Vervain and Poppy-flow'rs his garden crown'd,
And drooping Lilies whiten'd all the ground.
Bleft with thefe riches he cou'd 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 spring did firft his opening roses blow,
Firft ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough.
When piercing colds had burft the brittle ftone,"
And freezing rivers ftiffen'd as they run,
He then would prune the tender'ft of his trees,
Chide the late spring, and lingring 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 flow'rs his fmiling orchard dreft,
As many blossoms as the spring cou'd 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 plumb,
And spreading plane-trees, where supinely laid
He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the fhade.
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;
Becaufe, invited by the timbrel's found,
Lodg'd in a cave th' almighty babe they found,
And the young god nurft kindly under-ground.
Of all the wing'd inhabitants of air,
These only make their young the public care;
In well-difpos'd focieties they live,
And laws and ftatutes regulate their hive;
Nor ftray, like others, unconfin'd abroad,
But know fet ftations, and a fix'd abode :
Each provident of cold in fummer flies
Thro' fields, and woods, to feek for new fupplies,
And in the common stock unlades his thighs.
Some watch the food, fome in the meadows ply,
Tafte ev'ry bud, and fuck each bloffom dry;
Whilft others, lab'ring in their cells at home,
Temper Narciffus' 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 glewy base.
Some educate the young, or hatch the feed
With vital warmth, and future nations breed;
Whilft others thicken all the flimy Dews,
And into pureft honey work the juice;
Then fill the hollows of the comb, and swell
With luscious Nectar ev'ry flowing cell.
By turns they watch, by turns with curious eyes
Survey the heav'ns, and fearch the clouded skies
To find out breeding ftorms, and tell what tempefts rife.
By turns they ease the loaden fwarms, or drive
The drone, a lazy infect, from their hive.
The work is warmly ply'd through all the cells.
And strong with Thyme the new-made honey fmells.
So in their caves the brawny Cyclops sweat,
When with huge ftrokes the ftubborn wedge they beat,
And all th'unfhapen thunder-bolt compleat ;
Alternately their hammers rife and fall ;
Whilst griping tongs turn round the glowing ball.
With puffing bellows fome the flames increase,
And some in waters dip the hiffing mafs;
Their beaten anvils dreadfully refound,
And Ætna shakes all o'er, and thunders under ground.
Thus, if great things we may with small compare, The bufy fwarms their diff'rent labours share.
Defire of profit urges all degrees ;
The aged infects, by experience wife,
Attend the comb, and fashion ev'ry part,
And shape the waxen fret-work out with art :
The young at night, returning from their toils,
Bring home their thighs clog'd with the meadows spoils.
On Lavender, and Saffron-buds they feed,
On bending Ofiers, and the balmy Reed,
From purple Violets and the Teile they bring
Their gather'd sweets, and rifle all the spring.
All work together, all together rest.
The morning ftill renews their labours paft;
Then all rush out, their diff'rent tasks pursue,
Sit on the bloom, and fuck the rip'ning dew;
Again when evening warns 'em 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 filence, and diffolv'd in fleep.
None range abroad when winds and ftorms are nigh,
Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky,
But make small journeys, with a careful wing,
And fly to water at a neighb'ring spring;
And left their airy bodies fhould be cast
In reftlefs whirls, the sport of ev'ry blast,
They carry ftones to poife 'em in their flight,
As ballaft keeps th' unfteady veffel right.
But of all customs that the Bees can boast,
'Tis this may challenge admiration most ;
That none will Hymen's fofter 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 flow'rs 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 rifing state;
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