THE BEES AND THE FLIESA farmer of the Augustan agePerused in Virgil's golden page,The story of the secret wonFrom Proteus by Cyrene's sonHow the dank sea-god sowed the swainMeans to restore his hives againMore briefly, how a slaughtered bullBreeds honey by the bellyful.The egregious rustic put to deathA bull by stopping of its breath:Disposed the carcass in a shedWith fragrant herbs and branches spread.And, having thus performed the charm,Sat down to wait the promised swarm.Nor waited long... The God of DayImpartial, quickening with his rayEvil and good alike, beheldThe carcass—and the carcass swelled!Big with new birth the belly heavesBeneath its screen of scented leaves;Past any doubt, the bull conceives!The farmer bids men bring more hivesTo house the profit that arrives;Prepares on pan, and key and kettle,Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;But when to crown the work he goes,Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!Where are the honest toilers? WhereThe gravid mistress of their care?A busy scene, indeed, he sees,But not a sign or sound of bees.Worms of the riper grave unhidBy any kindly coffin lid,Obscene and shameless to the light,Seethe in insatiate appetite,Through putrid offal; while aboveThe hissing blow-fly seeks his love,Whose offspring, supping where they supt,Consume corruption twice corrupt.
A farmer of the Augustan agePerused in Virgil's golden page,The story of the secret wonFrom Proteus by Cyrene's sonHow the dank sea-god sowed the swainMeans to restore his hives againMore briefly, how a slaughtered bullBreeds honey by the bellyful.The egregious rustic put to deathA bull by stopping of its breath:Disposed the carcass in a shedWith fragrant herbs and branches spread.And, having thus performed the charm,Sat down to wait the promised swarm.Nor waited long... The God of DayImpartial, quickening with his rayEvil and good alike, beheldThe carcass—and the carcass swelled!Big with new birth the belly heavesBeneath its screen of scented leaves;Past any doubt, the bull conceives!The farmer bids men bring more hivesTo house the profit that arrives;Prepares on pan, and key and kettle,Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;But when to crown the work he goes,Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!Where are the honest toilers? WhereThe gravid mistress of their care?A busy scene, indeed, he sees,But not a sign or sound of bees.Worms of the riper grave unhidBy any kindly coffin lid,Obscene and shameless to the light,Seethe in insatiate appetite,Through putrid offal; while aboveThe hissing blow-fly seeks his love,Whose offspring, supping where they supt,Consume corruption twice corrupt.