Читать книгу The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase - John Gay - Страница 17

Ethereal sweets shall next my Muse engage,

And this, Maecenas, 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 so the poet's praise,

If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine

First, for your bees a proper station find,

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That's fenced about, and sheltered from the wind;

For winds divert them in their flight, and drive

The swarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive.

Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their stores,

To trample underfoot the springing flowers;

Nor frisking heifers bound about the place,

To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising grass;

Nor must the lizard's painted brood appear,

Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow, harbour near.

They waste the swarms, and, as they fly along,

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Convey the tender morsels to their young.

Let purling streams, and fountains edged with moss,

And shallow 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, shun

The crowded hive and sport it in the sun,

Refreshing springs may tempt them from the heat,

And shady coverts yield a cool retreat.

Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs,

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Lay twigs across and bridge it o'er with stones

That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of wind,

Should dip or scatter those that lag behind,

Here they may settle on the friendly stone,

And dry their reeking pinions at the sun.

Plant all the flowery banks with lavender,

With store of savory scent the fragrant air;

Let running betony the field o'erspread,

And fountains soak the violet's dewy bed.

Though barks or plaited willows make your hive,

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A narrow inlet to their cells contrive;

For colds congeal 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 suck out clammy dews from herbs and flowers,

To smear the chinks, and plaster up the pores;

For this they hoard up glue, whose clinging drops,

Like pitch or bird-lime, hang in stringy ropes.

They oft, 'tis said, in dark retirements dwell,

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And work in subterraneous caves their cell;

At other times the industrious insects 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.

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Things thus prepared——

When the under-world is seized with cold and night,

And summer here descends in streams of light,

The bees through woods and forests take their flight.

They rifle every flower, and lightly skim

The 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 see the bees repair,

Borne on the winds through distant tracts of air,

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And view the winged cloud all blackening from afar;

While shady coverts and fresh streams they choose,

Milfoil and common honeysuckles bruise,

And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice.

On brazen vessels beat a tinkling sound,

And shake the cymbals of the goddess round;

Then all will hastily retreat, and fill

The warm resounding hollow of their cell.

If once two rival kings their right debate,

And factions and cabals embroil the state,

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The people's actions will their thoughts declare;

All their hearts tremble, and beat thick with war;

Hoarse, broken sounds, like trumpets' harsh alarms,

Run through the hive, and call them to their arms;

All in a hurry spread their shivering wings,

And fit their claws, and point their angry stings:

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

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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 hailstones from the floor rebound,

Or shaken acorns rattle on the ground.

No sense of danger can their kings control,

Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul:

Each obstinate in arms pursues his blow,

Till shameful flight secures the routed foe.

This hot dispute and all this mighty fray

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A little dust flung upward will allay.

But when both kings are settled in their hive,

Mark him who looks the worst, and, lest he live

Idle at home in ease and luxury,

The lazy monarch must be doomed 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 speck'd with gold, and many a shining spot,

Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat;

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But love of ease, and sloth, in one prevails,

That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails:

The people's looks are different as their kings',

Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings;

Others look loathsome and diseased with sloth,

Like a faint traveller, whose dusty mouth

Grows dry with heat, and spits a mawkish froth.

The first are best——

From their o'erflowing combs you'll often press

Pure luscious sweets, that mingling in the glass

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Correct the harshness of the racy juice,

And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse.

But when they sport abroad, and rove from home,

And leave the cooling hive, and quit the unfinished comb,

Their airy ramblings are with ease confined,

Clip their king's wings, and if they stay behind

No bold usurper dares invade their right,

Nor sound a march, nor give the sign for flight.

Let flowery banks entice them to their cells,

And gardens all perfumed with native smells;

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Where carved Priapus has his fixed abode,

The robber's terror, and the scarecrow god.

Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill

Transplant, and nurse them in the neighbouring soil,

Set fruit-trees round, nor e'er indulge thy sloth,

But water them, and urge their shady growth.

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;

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What streams the verdant succory supply,

And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry;

With what a cheerful green does parsley grace,

And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twisted grass;

Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o'er,

Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore;

Nor daffodils, that late from earth's slow womb

Unrumple their swoln buds, and show their yellow bloom.

For once I saw in the Tarentine vale,

Where slow Galesus drenched the washy soil,

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An old Corician yeoman, who had got

A few neglected acres to his lot,

Where neither corn nor pasture graced the field,

Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield;

But savoury herbs among the thorns were found,

Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown'd,

And drooping lilies whitened all the ground.

Blest with these riches he could empires slight,

And when he rested from his toils at night,

The earth unpurchased dainties would afford,

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And his own garden furnished 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 stiffened as they run,

He then would prune the tenderest of his trees,

Chide the late spring, and lingering western breeze:

His bees first swarmed, and made his vessels foam

With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb.

Here lindens and the sappy pine increased;

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Here, when gay flowers his smiling orchard dressed,

As many blossoms as the spring could show,

So many dangling apples mellowed 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,

And leave for future poets to recite.

Now I'll proceed their natures to declare,

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Which Jove himself did on the bees confer

Because, invited by the timbrel's sound,

Lodged in a cave, the almighty babe they found,

And the young god nursed kindly under-ground.

Of all the winged 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 fixed abode:

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Each provident of cold in summer flies

Through fields and woods, to seek for new supplies,

And in the common stock unlades his thighs.

Some watch the food, some in the meadows ply,

Taste every bud, and suck each 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 gluey base.

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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 rise.

By turns they ease the loaden swarms, or drive

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The drone, a lazy insect, from their hive.

The work is warmly plied through all the cells,

And strong with thyme the new-made honey smells.

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;

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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 clogged with the meadows' spoils.

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On lavender and saffron buds they feed,

On bending osiers and the balmy reed,

From purple violets and the teile they bring

Their gathered 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,

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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 silence, and dissolved in sleep.

None range abroad when winds and storms are nigh,

Nor trust their bodies to a faithless sky,

But make small journeys with a careful wing,

And fly to water at a neighbouring spring;

And lest their airy bodies should be cast

In restless whirls, the sport of every blast,

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They carry stones to poise them in their flight,

As ballast keeps the unsteady vessel right.

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;

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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,

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Though seven short springs conclude their vital date,

Their ancient stocks eternally remain,

And in an endless race their children's children reign.

No prostrate vassal of the East can more

With slavish fear his haughty prince adore;

His life unites them all; but, when he dies,

All in loud tumults and distractions rise;

They waste their honey and their combs deface,

And wild confusion reigns in every place.

Him all admire, all the great guardian own,

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And crowd about his courts, and buzz about his throne.

Oft on their backs their weary prince they bear,

Oft in his cause, embattled in the air,

Pursue a glorious death, in wounds and war.

Some, from such instances as these, have taught,

'The bees' extract is heavenly; for they thought

The universe alive; and that a soul,

Diffused throughout the matter of the whole,

To all the vast unbounded frame was given,

And ran through earth, and air, and sea, and all the deep of heaven;

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That this first kindled life in man and beast,

Life, that again flows into this at last.

That no compounded animal could die,

But when dissolved, the spirit mounted high,

Dwelt in a star, and settled in the sky.'

Whene'er their balmy sweets you mean to seize,

And take the liquid labours of the bees,

Spurt draughts of water from your mouth, and drive

A loathsome cloud of smoke amidst their hive,

Twice in the year their flowery toils begin,

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And twice they fetch their dewy harvest in;

Once, when the lovely Pleiades arise,

And add fresh lustre to the summer skies;

And once, when hastening from the watery sign,

They quit their station, and forbear to shine.

The bees are prone to rage, and often found

To perish for revenge, and die upon the wound

Their venomed sting produces aching pains,

And swells the flesh, and shoots among the veins.

When first a cold hard winter's storms arrive,

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And threaten death or famine to their hive,

If now their sinking state and low affairs

Can move your pity, and provoke your cares,

Fresh burning thyme before their cells convey,

And cut their dry and husky wax away;

For often lizards seize the luscious spoils,

Or drones, that riot on another's toils:

Oft broods of moths infest the hungry swarms,

And oft the furious wasp their hive alarms

With louder hums, and with unequal arms;

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Or else the spider at their entrance sets.

Her snares, and spins her bowels into nets.

When sickness reigns, for they as well as we

Feel all the effects of frail mortality,

By certain marks the new disease is seen,

Their colour changes, and their looks are thin;

Their funeral rites are formed, and every bee

With grief attends the sad solemnity;

The few diseased survivors hang before

Their sickly cells, and droop about the door,

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Or slowly in their hives their limbs unfold,

Shrunk up with hunger, and benumbed with cold;

In drawling hums the feeble insects grieve,

And doleful buzzes echo through the hive,

Like winds that softly murmur through 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 famished swarm to eat,

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And gently reconcile them to their meat.

Mix juice of galls, and wine, that grow in time

Condensed by fire, and thicken to a slime;

To these, dried roses, thyme, and ccntaury join,

And raisins, ripened on the Psythian vine.

Besides, there grows a flower in marshy ground,

Its name amellus, easy to be found;

A mighty spring works in its root, and cleaves

The sprouting stalk, and shows itself in leaves:

The flower itself is of a golden hue,

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The leaves inclining to a darker blue;

The leaves shoot thick about the flower, 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 watery mazes flows.

Take plenty of its roots, and boil them well

In wine, and heap them up before the cell.

But if the whole stock fail, and none survive;

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To raise new people, and recruit the hive,

I'll here the great experiment declare,

That spread the Arcadian shepherd's name so far.

How bees from blood of slaughtered bulls have fled,

And swarms amidst the red corruption bred.

For where the Egyptians yearly see their bounds

Refreshed with floods, and sail about their grounds,

Where Persia borders, and the rolling Nile

Drives swiftly down the swarthy Indian's soil,

Till into seven it multiplies its stream,

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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 straitened 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,

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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 blows fall thick on every side,

Till his bruised bowels burst within the hide;

When dead, they leave him rotting on the ground,

With branches, thyme, and cassia, strowed around.

All this is done, when first the western breeze

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Becalms the year, and smooths the troubled seas;

Before the chattering swallow builds her nest,

Or fields in spring's embroidery are dress'd.

Meanwhile the tainted juice ferments within,

And quickens as its works: and now are seen

A wondrous swarm, that o'er the carcase crawls,

Of shapeless, rude, unfinished 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 quivering wings, and tries

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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 carcase pours

Its swarming brood, as thick as summer showers,

Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows,

When twanging strings first shoot them on the foes.

Thus have I sung the nature of the bee;

While Cæsar, towering to divinity,

The frighted Indians with his thunder awed,

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And claimed their homage, and commenced a god;

I flourished all the while in arts of peace,

Retired and sheltered 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.