University of Virginia Library

Next I will sing ethereal Dews refin'd,
The heavenly Gift of Honey to Mankind;
Let not Mecœnus this small Part despise,
Nature is always wonderful and wise;
But mind, while I the Laws, Birth, Wars relate,
And sing the Leaders of this winged State;
The Subjects humble, but not so the Praise,
If any Muse assist the Poets Lays,
Or invok'd Phœbus his small Labours grace,
First for your Bees, a Seat and Station chuse,
Shelter'd from Winds, and where no Cattle use;
For they in Winds cannot bring home their Food:
Nor let the Dew from off the Flowers be trod
By Sheep or Goats; let no young Heifer in,
With wandring Feet to crush the rising Green;
Suffer no greedy Wood-pecker to live,
Nor spotted Lizard, near you fruitful Hive;
Nor Progne's Race admit, who long since stain'd
Her feather'd Bosom, with her bleeding Hand;
Lest in their Bills they bear the Swarm away
To their devouring Nests a cruel Prey.
But let clear Fountains, mossy Pools be near,
And a small Brook his murmuring Passage wear
Between the grassy Banks; let the Hives be
O'ershaded by some Palm or Olive-tree;
That when new Kings first lead their Troops abroad,
And the glad Youth forsake their dark aboad;
They on the neighbouring Banks may shun the Heat,
Or find on shady Boughs a cool Retreat.
Whether the sluggish Waters make a Pool,
Or in weak Streams, with gentle Murmur rowl,
Throw in some Boughs and Stones where they may stand,
And to the Summer's Sun their Wings expand.
If by East Winds, disperst in their short flight,
They headlong on the Water's Surface light.
Let Cassia's spicy Shrub be ever nigh,
With verdant Thyme and fragrant Savory;
And near some Fountain, on well water'd Beds,
Let early Violets raise their Purple Heads:
And let your Hives, whether of Barks of Trees,
Or bending Osier have small Passages,
Le[s]t Cold condense, or Heat the Honey warm,
For both Extreams may equally do harm.
Nor is't in vain; so artfully they line
Their Cells with Wax, Herbs, Leaves and Flowers joyn,
Closing with certain Glue, their Outlets, which
For that small use excels Idean Pitch.
If Fame say true, sometimes they under Ground
Make themselves Nests, sometimes their Swarms are found
In the dark Vaults of hollow Pumices,
Or in the rotten Trunks of aged Trees.
To stop the gaping Crannies of their Hive,
Of Leaves and Mud a yielding Paste contrive.
Let no dire Yew, her baneful Shadow spread
Near their small House; no filthy Crabs grown red
In crackling Flames, infect the Neighbouring Air;
No odious smell of Mire, no Fen be near.
Echo, that babbling Nymph, be far away,
And hollow Caves that with last Accents play,
When under Ground the Sun makes Winter fly,
And with his fruitful Light expands the Sky.
They spread o're every Forest and dark Wood,
Sip of each Stream, and taste of every Bud:
Then back with Vernal Sweets, refresht they come,
New build and people their beloved Home.
Next in their artful Combs fresh holes they drill,
Which with tenacious Honey soon th[e]y fill.
When thou look'st up, and seest 'em all above,
In a thick Cloud before the Weather move,
Through yielding Skies cutting their liquid Way,
No more they mean in their own Homes to stay,
But fly to the next Water or green Wood,
For there they'll swarm, if not by Art withstood.
Press then each Herb of grateful smell and taste,
Before 'em Mint and Honey-suckles cast.
Let Brass and Old Cybile's Cymbals beat,
Till to their Medicin'd Hives, they all retreat;
But if adventurous Kings for Empire strive,
Or civil Wars divide the factious Hive,
The Vulgars Hearts thou early maist perceive,
Trembling for Rage; and through the buzzing Hive,
A broken Noise, like that of Trumpet's sound,
Till the hoarse Warlike Call the Camp go round:
Then shine their Wings, and each bold Warrior
Whets in his Mouth, and shakes his brandisht Spear;
About their King and his Pavillion all
The Bravest flock, and for th' Battle call.
At his Command in the early Spring they fly
Out of their Hives, and in the open Sky,
Meet in thick living Clouds, headlong they fall;
Not faster from a freezing Cloud the Hail,
Nor drops the Acorn from the shaken Oak.
The Kings their Camp and Squadrons overlook,
Distinguisht by illustrious Wings they go,
And mighty Courage in small Bodies show
So brave to fly no King was ever found
Till half his Host lay breathless on the Ground,
These Tempests of their Mind, this mighty Rage,
A little Dust thrown up, will soon asswage:
But if both Kings return, the Vanquisht slay;
The conquering Monarch let the Swarm obey;
One bright with various Spots, shining like Gold
(For of the two sorts there are) this best and bold
In Looks and Courage, gay with glittering Scales;
Deform'd with Sloth, the other poorly trails
A gross inglorious Paunch; as of the Kings,
Their Nations, Shape, are different, and their Wings;
Those foul and russet, like the Dust appear,
New Spit on by some thirsty Traveller;
These are all bright like Lumps of shining Gold,
And equal Spots their painted Backs unfold;
These are the noblest kind, from such thou maist
Sweet Honey press, and of the smoothest taste,
Not only sweet and clear, but such as may
The roughness of unpleasing Wines allay:
But when the Swarms fly wanton in the Air,
And to forsake their empty Hives prepare,
Thou may'st with ease the Wanderers recall,
Clip their King's Wings; the Labour is but small.
No great Attempt, if he once lag behind,
No airy March, no Flight will be design'd:
From various Flowers let grateful Odors rise,
And place the Garden's God before their Eyes:
Plant Thyme and Pines, from lofty Mountains torn,
About their House: Let Hinds, to labour born,
Set deep, and water well the fruitful Shade:
And now did not my ending Task perswade
To slack my Sails, as to my Port I steer,
Perhaps the Art of Gardening I'd declare,
And rosie Harvests of the Pæstan Year,
How their broad Leaves new water'd Endives rear,
Green Parsly-beds, slow Daffadils, and how
The bending Cucumbers to Belly grow;
Nor the Achantus wou'd in silence pass,
Y[ew,] Mirtles, nor th' Ivies dire embrace;
For I under Tarentums lofty Towers,
On yellow Fields, where slow Galasus pours
He[r] fruitful Stream, remember to have known
A good old Man; some Acres of his own
He did possess, but neither fit to breed
The useful Heifer, or the Flock to feed,
No Purple Vines his naked Elms adorn,
But his poor Soil was overgrown with Thorn,
Roots he preferr'd, and Pot-herbs of his own.
To all the Pomp and Riots of a Crown.
When late returning from his Work abroad,
He did with unbought Fare his Table load.
In the new Spring he cropt the earliest Rose,
And the first Apples ripen'd on his Boughs;
When even Rocks with cold fierce Winter cleaves,
And every Stream his icy Chain receives,
He the soft Sprigs of yielding Bearsfoot binds,
Chides the late Summer, and slow Western Winds:
He first made fruitful Bees his early care,
Had many Swarms, whose Combs much Honey bear:
As many Blossoms as the Spring display'd,
So much ripe Fruit his grateful Autumn paid:
He cou'd transplant large Elms and make 'em grow,
And to a tastful Plum, improve the Slow:
And Plants remove, such as might then afford
A grateful Shade to his small chearful Board.
To treat those things at large I here want room,
And therefore leave 'em to some Muse to come;
And now proceed the Natures to declare,
Which Jove himself did on the Bees confer
As a Reward, for following the shrill
Sound of Cybile's Priests on Ida's Hill;
Till by their tinkling Cymbals they were led,
Where Heaven's new exil'd King th[e]y found and fed.
Their off-spring they alone in common rear,
And their small City in like Houses share;
Under eternal Laws they wisely live,
Each knows his little Cell, and loves his Hive;
Mindful of Winter, in the Spring takes pains,
To swell the publick Stock with private Gains.
Some Food provide, and by appointment scour,
O'er every Meadow, and each opening Flower.
Others at home their industry imploy;
Tears of Narcissus, the too lovely Boy,
And lightest Gums f[ro]m Barks of Trees they take,
The firm Foundation of their Combs to make;
Those form the Wax, while these brood o're the young;
Others the Cells with liquid Nectar throng;
Some watch abroad, and of the Gates take care,
Observe Clouds, Rains, and Tempests in the Air;
Of the returning Swarm the loads receive,
Or force the idle Drones out of the Hive:
Hotly the Work is ply'd through all their Cells,
Fragrant with Thyme, the new-made Honey smells;
And as the Cyclops, when they Thunder mold,
Of melting Wedges, some the Bellows hold,
Draw in the Winds, and force 'em out again,
From the dark Womb of the Bulls nine-fold Skin:
Others dip hissing Metals in the Lakes,
With their huge massy Anvils Ætna shakes:
In tuneful Strokes, their high-rais'd hammers fall:
Some turn with nimble Tongs the glowing Ball.
So if small things I may with great compare,
Cecropian Swarms in their close Work-house fare;
Desire of Gains sollicites all Degrees,
And makes 'em ply their several Offices;
Care of the Town and Combs the Elder take;
And with Dædalian Art new Houses make;
The Younger late at Night with Labour worn,
And laden Thighs, from their days Task return.
Among the Wildings, and fat Teils they feed,
Pale Violets, and the Osier's bending Reed;
All the same Labour, and same Rest partake.
Soon as 'tis Day out of their Hives they break;
And when th' Evening calls 'em from abroad,
Alike refresh themselves with Rest and Food;
The House is fill'd with their returning Hum;
But when into their inward Rooms they come,
A Sacred Silence reigns throughout the Hive,
And all with Sleep their wearied Limbs relieve.
In threatning Show'rs from Home they will not fly,
Nor trust, when East-winds blow, the low'ring Sky,
But from their Walls, safe, short Excursions make,
And from the near'st Spring their Water take.
With little Stones they poise their flight,
As reeling Barks by Ballast are kept right.
'Tis strange this sort of Life shou'd please 'em so,
Where kindly Joys of Sex they never know;
To Venus never sacrifice, nor breed,
With glad short Pangs, the Youth that must succeed;
But gather from sweet Herbs, and Flowers their young,
Choose Kings, and such as to his Court belong;
Their little Cells, and Realms of Wax repair;
Sometimes on Flints, their labouring Wings they tear:
Under their Load, some generously expire,
Of Flowers, and Honey, through too great desire.
Though their Lives seldom seven Years exceed,
Their Kind's immortal, deathless is their Breed:
The ancient House and Families survive,
And a long faithful Pedigree derive.
Not Egypt, Lydia, nor Hidaspis Shore,
Their Monarch more obsequiously adore;
While he is safe, they all are of one Mind,
But if he fail, Faith Laws no longer bind;
On their own Stores tumultuously they fall,
And of their Combs, destroy themselves the Wall;
He keeps them all in order, and in awe.
Him they admire, and guard, observe, obey,
Oft bear him on their Shoulders through the Air;
And a brave Death pursue in Arms and War.
Some by these Signs, and these Examples taught,
Bees to partake of the eternal Mind have thought,
And of Ethereal Race; Jove runs through all,
High Heaven, deep Seas, and the Earth's massy Ball;
Hence Cattle, Men, all Animals receive
When th[e]y are born, the Souls by which they live,
And when dissolv'd, to him return, none dye,
To their first Elements the grosser fly,
Th' etherial Parts ascend their native Sky.
But if their little Stores thou car'st to sieze,
And force the Sacred Treasure of thy Bees,
First from thy Mouth large draughts of Water spout,
Then, with thy Hand extended, smoak 'em out.
Twice they have Young, two Harvests in a Year,
One when the lovely Pleiades appear,
And their new Light above the Ocean show;
The other when those Stars feel Winters blow,
And to moist Northern Pisces leave their Place,
Hiding in stormy Seas their sullen Face.
With the least hurt provok'd, they arm for fight,
And dart a painful Venom where they light:
Fixt in the Veins their Sting and Soul they leave,
And often perish by the same Wound they give.
But if thou seest a cold hard Winter near,
And their low Minds, their sickly State declare,
Who doubts to spare their Stores, or will delay
To burn fresh Thyme, or cut some Wax away?
Oft on their Combs, the unseen Lizards light,
And buzzing Moths disturb 'em in the night;
Or sluggish Drones (on others Toil that thrive)
Or Wasps with their unequal Arms arrive.
Some filthy Worm gets in, or Spider sets
At their Hive's Mouth, her loose and deadly Nets.
The more they are exhausted, still the more
Their wasted Stock they labour to restore.
But if, perhaps (as Life will on the Bees
Bring our Distempers) with some new Disease
They languish, which no doubtful Signs declare,
A horrid paleness will their Looks impair,
And dusky Colours their sick Bodies wear.
Then bear they out great Numbers of the Dead,
And in long Pomp, sad Funerals they lead,
Or dully hang, clincht in each others Feet,
At the Hive's Mouth, or to their Cells retreat,
Through cold or hunger, for their Work unfit.
Whispers and Murmuring rise, as when a Breese
Of Southern Winds breath on the bending Trees,
Or troubled Seas in ebbing Tides retire,
Or Forges labour with imprison'd Fire.
To burn Galbanean Fumes I would perswade,
And through fresh Pipes let Honey be convey'd;
So to restore 'em to their Strength and Food.
To mix the Juice of Galls, perhaps were good.
Dry'd Roses, and new Wines half boil'd away,
Clusters of Raisins, Thyme, and Centaury.
There is a Flower, which we in Meadows find,
And call'd Amello by the Country Hind;
By those that seek it, easie to be known,
Each single Root a many Branches crown;
Yellow the Flowers, but to the numerous Leaves,
The darker Purple of the Vi'let cleaves;
With it the Altars of the Gods are crown'd,
Rough to the Taste, in fruitful Vallies found
By Shepherds, that near winding Mella dwell.
Boil this sound Root in generous Whit[e]-wine well,
Then Osier-pipes with the new Diet fill.
But shou'd the whole Stock fail, and none remain,
Whence a new Progeny might rise again,
'Tis time, the fam'd Invention to unfold,
Of the Arcadian Shepherd, how of old,
From the bruis'd Blood of Heifers new slain, Bees
Have taken Life, and swarm'd out by degrees
Here the whole Story shall at large have place.
While the long Fame, I to its Author trace:
For where the People of Canopus dwell,
And fruitful Waters of fat Nilus swell;
On whose smooth Bosom painted Vessels ride,
Where-e're it borders on rich Persia's Side;
Or with seven Mouths do's the plain Country drown,
As far as from parcht India rowling down,
Egypt's green Soil, with fruitful Slime to mend;
All the vast Region on this Art depend.
A Place contracted for that use they chuse,
And the low House with narrow Walls inclose:
Of well-wrought Tyles, four Windows they contrive
To the four Winds expos'd, that may receive
The Light obliquely; then they choose a Steer,
Whose bending Horns proclaim his Second Year;
On him they seize, and stop his struggling Breath
At Mouth, and Nostrils, beating him to death.
With his bruis'd Entrals his warm Hide they fill,
And thus inclos'd, they leave him for a while:
Fresh Boughs, Thyme, Cassia's on his sides they throw,
E're Western-winds first on the Waters blow;
E're Nature with fresh Colours paints the Fields,
Or on House-tops the airy Swallow builds.
The clotted Blood and dissolv'd Bones, the while
Ferment, and into wondrous Creatures boil,
Who without Feet at first their Voices try,
And with new Wings in little Parties fly;
Till they at last break forth, as when a Shower
Hot Summers Clouds on the parch'd Mountains pour,
Or as the Arrows from the Parth[i]an Bow,
When twanging Strings first send 'em on the Foe.
What, God, my Muse? who first this Secret taught,
Or was it the high Flight of Human Thought?
The Shepherd Aristæus (as Fame says)
Losing his Flock, through Famine and Disease,
Forsook Thessalian Temple, and dismay'd,
Ran to the Sacred River's utmost Head,
And thus his Moan to his bright Parent made:
Mother, Cyrene, Mother who dost keep
Thy watry Court beneath this Crystal Deep,
Why dost thou say I am of heavenly Race,
And sprung from Great Apollo's hot Embrace,
Since Fate pursues me thus? Is this thy Love?
Why dost thou bid me hope a Seat above,
Since in this Life that little Fame decays,
Which I by Herds and Gardens thought to raise?
With thy own Hand my thriving Woods destroy,
Devouring Fire against my Stalls employ,
Burn my full Barns, if I too much enjoy,
Cut down my Vines, and blast my coming Years,
Since my small Fame offends a Mother's Ears.
His Voice Cyrene through her Waters heard,
While round her Nymphs Milesian Fleeces card;
Drymo and Xantho, Ephyre the Fair,
Her Neck half cover'd with her flowing Hair;
Cydïpe and Lycoris, one a Maid,
The other rising from Lucina's Aid;
Clio and Beroe, both Ocean-born,
Whom well-wrought Gold and painted Skins adorn;
Bright Deiopea, Arethusa, now
No more a Huntress with her Spear and Bow;
To these Clymene sings of Vulcan's Care,
Defeated by the amorous God of War:
From Chaos she the Loves of Gods relates.
Pleas'd with these Tales, while the soft Flax abates
From their swift Spindles, the Nymph hears again,
Nearer and nearer still her Son complain,
All rise astonisht from their green Abode;
But Arethusa first above the Flood
Lifts her bright Head: The Crystal Waters bow'd,
And spying him afar, 'Twas not in vain,
Sister, she said, we heard a Voice complain;
Sad Aristæus, once thy Care and Joy,
See at thy Father's Spring the weeping Boy:
By Name he calls thee Cruel and Unkind.
Fear and Amazement, seiz'd Cyrene's Mind,
Let him, she said, he may behold th' aboads,
And tread the Threshold of his kindred Gods.
At his command the wondring Rivers spread,
And a new Passage for his Entrance made.
The Waters like a Mountain stood on Heaps,
While he into their yielding Bosom leaps:
Down to the bottom, where amaz'd he sees
His Mother's Realm and Crystal Palaces:
And as he goes, admires the sounding Groves,
And hidden Lakes, thro' which the Water moves
With such amazing Force, and under Ground
Beholds the Rivers that our World go round;
Phasis and Lycus, and the sacred Head
Whence the deep Waters of Enipeus spread;
Whence Aniena and fam'd Tyber flow,
The stony Hypanis, Mysus and the Poe,
Than which no River runs a swifter Race
To his old Father Neptune's moist Embrace.
Into her inmost Seat while they withdrew,
And of each other took a nearer View,
The Nymphs clear Fountains for their Hands prepare,
And curious Towels of the finest Hair:
Some with full Cups, with Banquets some attend,
While in rich Smoak Panchæan Gums ascend:
Take this full Bowl of Wine, Cyrene cries,
And to the Ocean pour the Sacrifice:
To Neptune first, Father of all she Prays;
Then Nymphs inhabiting the Woods and Seas;
Pure Nectar thrice upon the Fire she throws,
And thrice the auspicious Flame up to the Cieling rose:
Embolden'd by the Omen, thus she spake,
A Prophet dwells in the Carpathian Lake;
Green Proteus, whom a wondrous Coach conveighs,
And scaly Horses draw through yielding Seas:
His own Palene on th' Emathian Shore
He visits: Now him, all we Nymphs adore,
And aged Nereus self; for well he knows
What is, what was, what Fate will next expose:
So Neptune has decreed, whose Herds and Flocks
He feeds beneath the Ocean's craggy Rocks:
Him thou must seize, my Son, and bind him well,
Till thy Misfortune's Cause and Cure he tell:
For uncompell'd he nothing will declare,
Nor can his Heart be touch'd with humane Prayer.
When thou hast seiz'd him, chain, or use him worse,
His Shifts will fail before the God-like Force:
My self, when the Sun climbs the middle Sky,
Plants scorch, and Cattle to their Coverts fly,
Will bring thee where the aged Prophet lies
Dissolv'd in Sleep and Sloth, and easie for surprize.
When thou hast seiz'd and bound him, every Shape
And frightful Form he'll vary, to escape;
One while he'll seem a Dragon, or tusk'd Boar,
Then shake his yellow Mane, and like a Lyon roar;
Then crackle like a kindling Flame, or slide
Out of thy Chains like a declining Tide:
The more he varies Forms, my Son, the more
Urge thy Success, and never give him o're,
Till vext through all his Forms, that Shape he keep
Which first he wore when he lay down to sleep.
This said, she with Ambrosia scents the Room,
And 'noints his Body for the time to come,
The Steam Divine on his loose Tresses dwells,
And every Nerve which active Vigor swells.
Worn in a Mountain's side there is a Cave,
Where beat by ceasless Winds the Waters rave;
And into crooked Bays the Currents glide,
Of old a Port where Vessels us'd to ride:
Within lies Proteus, with high Rocks inclos'd.
In ambush here her Son the Nymph dispos'd:
For her Retreat a distant Cloud she wove;
Now Syrius scorcht the Indians from above,
And through the middle Sky swift Phœbus drove:
Herbs wither'd at his touch, and to the Mud,
His thirsty Beams drank up the boiling Flood;
When Proteus rising from the Waves repair'd
To his old Cave; on him the watry Herd
Of Sea-born Monsters their Attendance pay,
And in glad Leaps shake the salt Dews away.
Around the Shore the sleepy Sea-calves lay;
He, like a Herdsman on some Hill that lives,
When Night the lazy Cattle homeward drives,
And bleating Lambs the hungry Woolf provoke,
Reviews and tells 'em over, from his Rock:
Seeing his time, the bold Youth on him rush'd,
And with new Chains the aged Prophet crush'd.
He on the other side trys every Shape,
And dreadful Form, whereby he might escape:
One while a Monster, Flame, and then a Flood.
Finding himself through all his Shifts pursu'd,
Wearied' o'ercome, his former Shape he took,
And with a Humane Voice at last he spoke:
Bold Youth, who bid thee to our Cave repair?
What would'st thou learn? he said, What mak'st thou here?
Proteus, thou know'st no Man can thee deceive,
Deceive not others by the Gods high Leave;
Ruin'd, undone, I come to know of thee,
What was the Cause, what is the Remedy.
Here the green Prophet cast a dreadful Look,
He star'd, he gnasht his Teeth, and big with Fate thus spoke:
Some powerful God with no light Wrath pursues
Thy fatal Crime; now injur'd Orp[h]eus shews
His fierce Revenge, he this Contagion sent,
For his lost Wife too small a Punishment:
Unhappy Nymph, who while she headlong fled
Thy foul Pursuit, on a loathed Serpent's Head
Trod unawares, which then she could not see
For the long Grass, and for worse Fears of thee:
For equal, Nymphs the Dryades with shrill
Complaints and Shrieks the neighbouring Mountains fill.
The Towers of Rhodope, the Gætan Race,
The rough Inhabitants of Warlike Thrace;
Pangæum, Hebrus, Orithyia, all,
With their united Grief lament her Fall:
He on bleak Sands, soothing his vain Desire,
Wanders alone, and with his mournful Lyre
Feeding his Grief, pining himself away,
With her begins, with her he ends the Day.
The Jaws of Tænarus, Infernal Gates,
Dark Groves he past, where dismal Terrour waits;
To Ghosts, and their dread King, does fearless sue,
And Minds that never yet Compassion knew:
Charm'd with his Voice the airy People throng
About the Youth, and listen to his Song;
Thick as small Birds to their dark Coverts fly,
When th' Evening comes, or the tempestuous Sky
Pours down a Storm.
Mothers with Husbands, and the breathless Shades
Of once great Heroes, Boys, and riper Maids,
Unmarry'd Youth whom their fond Parents mourn'd,
Before their Face t' untimely Ashes turn'd.
All these with filthy Mud, rank ugly Weeds,
Such as alone infernal Water breeds,
Styx does nine times surround the House of Fate,
And Snake-hair'd Furies in Amazement sate.
Cerberus three Mouths were dumb, Ixion's Wheel,
And Winds that move it at, his Song, were still.
Now he returning, had all Dangers past,
And freed Eurydice beheld at last
The upper Sky again, following behind, unseen,
So far obeying the infernal Queen;
Here Love, Rage, Joy, to a short Madness drive,
Th' impatient Lover, (could those Gods forgive,
How small a Fault!) here fatally he staid,
Rashly forgetting the Agreement made:
With the first Glimpse of fresh Ethereal Light,
On his dear Wife he turn'd his longing Sight:
Here vanish'd all his Labour, and their Law
Those unrelenting Powers neglected saw.
Three Peals of Thunder shook th' infernal Coast,
Orpheus, she cry'd, was ever Love so crost?
How are we both by thy rash Passion lost?
Fate puts me back, and my declining Sight
Feels the cold Hand of Death and endless Night.
Farewel, farewel for ever, now I go
Plung'd deep in Darkness, to the World below;
Stretching to thee, (dear Cause of all my Harms)
No longer thine, alas! my helpless Arms.
And at that Word from his distracted sight,
Like Smoak mixt with thin Air, she took her flight,
Ne'r to return again. At the dear Shade
In vain he catcht, and much he wou'd have said,
Too late: For surly Charon wou'd no more
Permit his Passage to the Elysian Shore.
His Wife twice lost, ah, Whither shou'd he move?
With what soft Prayer invoke the Powers above?
Or with what Tears the Shades? cold in the Boat,
On the dark Lake she did already float.
'Tis said seven Months he did his Loss deplore
On the bleak Rocks of Strymon's Desart-shore;
Singing this sad Event of too much Love,
He soften'd Tygers and made Forrests move.
As in some Poplar Shade the Nightingal,
In mournful Strains, does her lost Young bewail,
Whom some course Hind has newly torn away
From their warm Nests, unfeather'd as they lay.
Night after Night, upon some Bough she sits,
And her sad Note no Moment intermits,
Which every Field and echoing Grove repeats:
Nor Love, nor Marriage charm'd his restless Mind;
Alone he wanders, where the Northern Wind
Beats upon snowy Tanais chilling Shoar,
Where Ice ne're fails, and ceasless Tempests roar;
There his lost Wife he mourns in doleful Strains,
And of the Gods and their vain Gift complains.
The fierce Sithonian Women thus despis'd,
As they the Feast of Bacchus solemniz'd,
Full of their God, and boiling with disdain,
Scatter'd his bleeding Limbs through all the Plain.
From his firm Neck his gory Head thus torn,
Down the swift Stream of rapid Hebrus born,
Shriekt out, Ah poor Eurydice, and dy'd,
The echoing Banks Eurydice reply'd.

This said, he plung'd into his watry World,
About his Head the foaming Billows curl'd.
Her anxious Son divine Cyrene chears,
Here end thy Grief, she said, and needless Cares:
This was the Cause of all thy Woe, the Crime,
For which the Nymphs, Companions of her prime,
Whom she in sacred Dances us'd to lead,
Among thy Bees that dire Contagion spread.
With Prayers and Sacrifice their Wrath appease:
Napæan Nymphs invok't, forgive with ease.
Take four curl'd Bullocks of thy largest breed,
Whom now the Hills of green Lycæus feed;
As many untam'd Heifers; and for these
Four Altars in their Sacred Temples raise:
Then from their wounded Throats let out the Blood,
And leave their Bodies in some shady Wood.
Soon as the ninth Aurora gilds the Skies,
To Orpheus drowzy Poppeys sacrifice,
With a black Lamb; then view the Grove again;
Eurydice, with a Calf newly slain
Thou shalt appease. Without delay he goes;
All she commands immediately he does:
Comes to the Temple, does the Altars raise;
Four mighty Bulls of wondrous Bulk he slays,
As many Heifers that ne'r felt the Yoke,
When from the East the ninth Aurora broke:
He Worships Orpheus, to the Grove he goes;
When lo a strange and wondrous Sight arose.
From the Bulls Entrails Bees were found to hum,
And met in Swarms from out the putrid Womb:
In moving Clouds to the next Tree they go,
And hang like Cluster'd Grapes upon a bending Bough.
While thus of Plants, Tillage, and Herds I sung,
With Cæsar's thundring Arms Euphrates rung.
Just Laws he for the willing World ordain'd;
By God-like Acts his Claim to Heaven maintain'd.
Me all that while proud Naples did embrace,
Fam'd for th' inglorious Arts of lazy Peace:
Full of the Loves of Shepherds, bold and young,
Under the Beechen Shade, thee, Tityrus, I sung.