Thee too, great Pales, will I hymn, and thee,Amphrysian shepherd, worthy to be sung,You, woods and waves Lycaean. All themes beside,Which else had charmed the vacant mind with song,Are now waxed common. Of harsh Eurystheus whoThe story knows not, or that praiseless kingBusiris, and his altars? or by whomHath not the tale been told of Hylas young,Latonian Delos and Hippodame,And Pelops for his ivory shoulder famed,Keen charioteer? Needs must a path be tried,By which I too may lift me from the dust,And float triumphant through the mouths of men.Yea, I shall be the first, so life endure,To lead the Muses with me, as I passTo mine own country from the Aonian height;I, Mantua, first will bring thee back the palmsOf Idumaea, and raise a marble shrineOn thy green plain fast by the water-side,Where Mincius winds more vast in lazy coils,And rims his margent with the tender reed.Amid my shrine shall Caesar's godhead dwell.To him will I, as victor, bravely dightIn Tyrian purple, drive along the bankA hundred four-horse cars. All Greece for me,Leaving Alpheus and Molorchus' grove,On foot shall strive, or with the raw-hide glove;Whilst I, my head with stripped green olive crowned,Will offer gifts. Even 'tis present joyTo lead the high processions to the fane,And view the victims felled; or how the sceneSunders with shifted face, and Britain's sonsInwoven thereon with those proud curtains rise.Of gold and massive ivory on the doorsI'll trace the battle of the Gangarides,And our Quirinus' conquering arms, and thereSurging with war, and hugely flowing, the Nile,And columns heaped on high with naval brass.And Asia's vanquished cities I will add,And quelled Niphates, and the Parthian foe,Who trusts in flight and backward-volleying darts,And trophies torn with twice triumphant handFrom empires twain on ocean's either shore.And breathing forms of Parian marble thereShall stand, the offspring of Assaracus,And great names of the Jove-descended folk,And father Tros, and Troy's first founder, lordOf Cynthus. And accursed Envy thereShall dread the Furies, and thy ruthless flood,Cocytus, and Ixion's twisted snakes,And that vast wheel and ever-baffling stone.Meanwhile the Dryad-haunted woods and lawnsUnsullied seek we; 'tis thy hard behest,Maecenas. Without thee no lofty taskMy mind essays. Up! break the sluggish bondsOf tarriance; with loud din Cithaeron calls,Steed-taming Epidaurus, and thy hounds,Taygete; and hark! the assenting grovesWith peal on peal reverberate the roar.Yet must I gird me to rehearse ere longThe fiery fights of Caesar, speed his nameThrough ages, countless as to Caesar's selfFrom the first birth-dawn of Tithonus old.If eager for the prized Olympian palmOne breed the horse, or bullock strong to plough,Be his prime care a shapely dam to choose.Of kine grim-faced is goodliest, with coarse headAnd burly neck, whose hanging dewlaps reachFrom chin to knee; of boundless length her flank;Large every way she is, large-footed even,With incurved horns and shaggy ears beneath.Nor let mislike me one with spots of whiteConspicuous, or that spurns the yoke, whose hornAt times hath vice in't: liker bull-faced she,And tall-limbed wholly, and with tip of tailBrushing her footsteps as she walks along.The age for Hymen's rites, Lucina's pangs,Ere ten years ended, after four begins;Their residue of days nor apt to teem,Nor strong for ploughing. Meantime, while youth's delightSurvives within them, loose the males: be firstTo speed thy herds of cattle to their loves,Breed stock with stock, and keep the race supplied.Ah! life's best hours are ever first to flyFrom hapless mortals; in their place succeedDisease and dolorous eld; till travail soreAnd death unpitying sweep them from the scene.Still will be some, whose form thou fain wouldst change;Renew them still; with yearly choice of youngPreventing losses, lest too late thou rue.Nor steeds crave less selection; but on thoseThou think'st to rear, the promise of their line,From earliest youth thy chiefest pains bestow.See from the first yon high-bred colt afield,His lofty step, his limbs' elastic tread:Dauntless he leads the herd, still first to tryThe threatening flood, or brave the unknown bridge,By no vain noise affrighted; lofty-necked,With clean-cut head, short belly, and stout back;His sprightly breast exuberant with brawn.Chestnut and grey are good; the worst-hued whiteAnd sorrel. Then lo! if arms are clashed afar,Bide still he cannot: ears stiffen and limbs quake;His nostrils snort and roll out wreaths of fire.Dense is his mane, that when uplifted fallsOn his right shoulder; betwixt either loinThe spine runs double; his earth-dinting hoofRings with the ponderous beat of solid horn.Even such a horse was Cyllarus, reined and tamedBy Pollux of Amyclae; such the pairIn Grecian song renowned, those steeds of Mars,And famed Achilles' team: in such-like formGreat Saturn's self with mane flung loose on neckSped at his wife's approach, and flying filledThe heights of Pelion with his piercing neigh.Even him, when sore disease or sluggish eldNow saps his strength, pen fast at home, and spareHis not inglorious age. A horse grown oldSlow kindling unto love in vain prolongsThe fruitless task, and, to the encounter come,As fire in stubble blusters without strength,He rages idly. Therefore mark thou firstTheir age and mettle, other points anon,As breed and lineage, or what pain was theirsTo lose the race, what pride the palm to win.Seest how the chariots in mad rivalryPoured from the barrier grip the course and go,When youthful hope is highest, and every heartDrained with each wild pulsation? How they plyThe circling lash, and reaching forward letThe reins hang free! Swift spins the glowing wheel;And now they stoop, and now erect in airSeem borne through space and towering to the sky:No stop, no stay; the dun sand whirls aloft;They reek with foam-flakes and pursuing breath;So sweet is fame, so prized the victor's palm.'Twas Ericthonius first took heart to yokeFour horses to his car, and rode aboveThe whirling wheels to victory: but the ringAnd bridle-reins, mounted on horses' backs,The Pelethronian Lapithae bequeathed,And taught the knight in arms to spurn the ground,And arch the upgathered footsteps of his pride.Each task alike is arduous, and for eachA horse young, fiery, swift of foot, they seek;How oft so-e'er yon rival may have chasedThe flying foe, or boast his native plainEpirus, or Mycenae's stubborn hold,And trace his lineage back to Neptune's birth.These points regarded, as the time draws nigh,With instant zeal they lavish all their careTo plump with solid fat the chosen chiefAnd designated husband of the herd:And flowery herbs they cut, and serve him wellWith corn and running water, that his strengthNot fail him for that labour of delight,Nor puny colts betray the feeble sire.The herd itself of purpose they reduceTo leanness, and when love's sweet longing firstProvokes them, they forbid the leafy food,And pen them from the springs, and oft besideWith running shake, and tire them in the sun,What time the threshing-floor groans heavilyWith pounding of the corn-ears, and light chaffIs whirled on high to catch the rising west.This do they that the soil's prolific powersMay not be dulled by surfeiting, nor chokeThe sluggish furrows, but eagerly absorbTheir fill of love, and deeply entertain.To care of sire the mother's care succeeds.When great with young they wander nigh their time,Let no man suffer them to drag the yokeIn heavy wains, nor leap across the way,Nor scour the meads, nor swim the rushing flood.In lonely lawns they feed them, by the courseOf brimming streams, where moss is, and the banksWith grass are greenest, where are sheltering caves,And far outstretched the rock-flung shadow lies.Round wooded Silarus and the ilex-bowersOf green Alburnus swarms a winged pest-Its Roman name Asilus, by the GreeksTermed Oestros- fierce it is, and harshly hums,Driving whole herds in terror through the groves,Till heaven is madded by their bellowing din,And Tanager's dry bed and forest-banks.With this same scourge did Juno wreak of oldThe terrors of her wrath, a plague devisedAgainst the heifer sprung from Inachus.From this too thou, since in the noontide heats'Tis most persistent, fend thy teeming herds,And feed them when the sun is newly risen,Or the first stars are ushering in the night.But, yeaning ended, all their tender careIs to the calves transferred; at once with marksThey brand them, both to designate their race,And which to rear for breeding, or devoteAs altar-victims, or to cleave the groundAnd into ridges tear and turn the sod.The rest along the greensward graze at will.Those that to rustic uses thou wouldst mould,As calves encourage and take steps to tame,While pliant wills and plastic youth allow.And first of slender withies round the throatLoose collars hang, then when their free-born necksAre used to service, with the self-same bandsYoke them in pairs, and steer by steer compelKeep pace together. And time it is that oftUnfreighted wheels be drawn along the groundBehind them, as to dint the surface-dust;Then let the beechen axle strain and creak'Neath some stout burden, whilst a brazen poleDrags on the wheels made fast thereto. MeanwhileFor their unbroken youth not grass alone,Nor meagre willow-leaves and marish-sedge,But corn-ears with thy hand pluck from the crops.Nor shall the brood-kine, as of yore, for theeBrim high the snowy milking-pail, but spendTheir udders' fullness on their own sweet young.But if fierce squadrons and the ranks of warDelight thee rather, or on wheels to glideAt Pisa, with Alpheus fleeting by,And in the grove of Jupiter urge onThe flying chariot, be your steed's first taskTo face the warrior's armed rage, and brookThe trumpet, and long roar of rumbling wheels,And clink of chiming bridles in the stall;Then more and more to love his master's voiceCaressing, or loud hand that claps his neck.Ay, thus far let him learn to dare, when firstWeaned from his mother, and his mouth at timesYield to the supple halter, even while yetWeak, tottering-limbed, and ignorant of life.But, three years ended, when the fourth arrives,Now let him tarry not to run the ringWith rhythmic hoof-beat echoing, and now learnAlternately to curve each bending leg,And be like one that struggleth; then at lastChallenge the winds to race him, and at speedLaunched through the open, like a reinless thing,Scarce print his footsteps on the surface-sand.As when with power from Hyperborean climesThe north wind stoops, and scatters from his pathDry clouds and storms of Scythia; the tall cornAnd rippling plains 'gin shiver with light gusts;A sound is heard among the forest-tops;Long waves come racing shoreward: fast he flies,With instant pinion sweeping earth and main.A steed like this or on the mighty courseOf Elis at the goal will sweat, and showerRed foam-flakes from his mouth, or, kindlier task,With patient neck support the Belgian car.Then, broken at last, let swell their burly frameWith fattening corn-mash, for, unbroke, they willWith pride wax wanton, and, when caught, refuseTough lash to brook or jagged curb obey.But no device so fortifies their powerAs love's blind stings of passion to forefend,Whether on steed or steer thy choice be set.Ay, therefore 'tis they banish bulls afarTo solitary pastures, or behindSome mountain-barrier, or broad streams beyond,Or else in plenteous stalls pen fast at home.For, even through sight of her, the female wastesHis strength with smouldering fire, till he forgetBoth grass and woodland. She indeed full oftWith her sweet charms can lovers proud compelTo battle for the conquest horn to horn.In Sila's forest feeds the heifer fair,While each on each the furious rivals run;Wound follows wound; the black blood laves their limbs;Horns push and strive against opposing horns,With mighty groaning; all the forest-sideAnd far Olympus bellow back the roar.Nor wont the champions in one stall to couch;But he that's worsted hies him to strange climesFar off, an exile, moaning much the shame,The blows of that proud conqueror, then love's lossAvenged not; with one glance toward the byre,His ancient royalties behind him lie.So with all heed his strength he practiseth,And nightlong makes the hard bare stones his bed,And feeds on prickly leaf and pointed rush,And proves himself, and butting at a treeLearns to fling wrath into his horns, with blowsProvokes the air, and scattering clouds of sandMakes prelude of the battle; afterward,With strength repaired and gathered might breaks camp,And hurls him headlong on the unthinking foe:As in mid ocean when a wave far ofBegins to whiten, mustering from the mainIts rounded breast, and, onward rolled to landFalls with prodigious roar among the rocks,Huge as a very mountain: but the depthsUpseethe in swirling eddies, and disgorgeThe murky sand-lees from their sunken bed.Nay, every race on earth of men, and beasts,And ocean-folk, and flocks, and painted birds,Rush to the raging fire: love sways them all.Never than then more fiercely o'er the plainProwls heedless of her whelps the lioness:Nor monstrous bears such wide-spread havoc-doomDeal through the forests; then the boar is fierce,Most deadly then the tigress: then, alack!Ill roaming is it on Libya's lonely plains.Mark you what shivering thrills the horse's frame,If but a waft the well-known gust conveys?Nor curb can check them then, nor lash severe,Nor rocks and caverned crags, nor barrier-floods,That rend and whirl and wash the hills away.Then speeds amain the great Sabellian boar,His tushes whets, with forefoot tears the ground,Rubs 'gainst a tree his flanks, and to and froHardens each wallowing shoulder to the wound.What of the youth, when love's relentless mightStirs the fierce fire within his veins? Behold!In blindest midnight how he swims the gulfConvulsed with bursting storm-clouds! Over himHeaven's huge gate thunders; the rock-shattered mainUtters a warning cry; nor parents' tearsCan backward call him, nor the maid he loves,Too soon to die on his untimely pyre.What of the spotted ounce to Bacchus dear,Or warlike wolf-kin or the breed of dogs?Why tell how timorous stags the battle join?O'er all conspicuous is the rage of mares,By Venus' self inspired of old, what timeThe Potnian four with rending jaws devouredThe limbs of Glaucus. Love-constrained they roamPast Gargarus, past the loud Ascanian flood;They climb the mountains, and the torrents swim;And when their eager marrow first conceivesThe fire, in Spring-tide chiefly, for with SpringWarmth doth their frames revisit, then they standAll facing westward on the rocky heights,And of the gentle breezes take their fill;And oft unmated, marvellous to tell,But of the wind impregnate, far and wideO'er craggy height and lowly vale they scud,Not toward thy rising, Eurus, or the sun's,But westward and north-west, or whence up-springsBlack Auster, that glooms heaven with rainy cold.Hence from their groin slow drips a poisonous juice,By shepherds truly named hippomanes,Hippomanes, fell stepdames oft have culled,And mixed with herbs and spells of baneful bode.Fast flies meanwhile the irreparable hour,As point to point our charmed round we trace.Enough of herds. This second task remains,The wool-clad flocks and shaggy goats to treat.Here lies a labour; hence for glory look,Brave husbandmen. Nor doubtfully knowHow hard it is for words to triumph here,And shed their lustre on a theme so slight:But I am caught by ravishing desireAbove the lone Parnassian steep; I loveTo walk the heights, from whence no earlier trackSlopes gently downward to Castalia's spring.Now, awful Pales, strike a louder tone.First, for the sheep soft pencotes I decreeTo browse in, till green summer's swift return;And that the hard earth under them with strawAnd handfuls of the fern be littered deep,Lest chill of ice such tender cattle harmWith scab and loathly foot-rot. Passing thenceI bid the goats with arbute-leaves be stored,And served with fresh spring-water, and their pensTurned southward from the blast, to face the sunsOf winter, when Aquarius' icy beamNow sinks in showers upon the parting year.These too no lightlier our protection claim,Nor prove of poorer service, howsoe'erMilesian fleeces dipped in Tyrian redsRepay the barterer; these with offspring teemMore numerous; these yield plenteous store of milk:The more each dry-wrung udder froths the pail,More copious soon the teat-pressed torrents flow.Ay, and on Cinyps' bank the he-goats tooTheir beards and grizzled chins and bristling hairLet clip for camp-use, or as rugs to wrapSeafaring wretches. But they browse the woodsAnd summits of Lycaeus, and rough briers,And brakes that love the highland: of themselvesRight heedfully the she-goats homeward troopBefore their kids, and with plump udders cloggedScarce cross the threshold. Wherefore rather ye,The less they crave man's vigilance, be fainFrom ice to fend them and from snowy winds;Bring food and feast them with their branchy fare,Nor lock your hay-loft all the winter long.But when glad summer at the west wind's callSends either flock to pasture in the glades,Soon as the day-star shineth, hie we thenTo the cool meadows, while the dawn is young,The grass yet hoary, and to browsing herdsThe dew tastes sweetest on the tender sward.When heaven's fourth hour draws on the thickening drought,And shrill cicalas pierce the brake with song,Then at the well-springs bid them, or deep pools,From troughs of holm-oak quaff the running wave:But at day's hottest seek a shadowy vale,Where some vast ancient-timbered oak of JoveSpreads his huge branches, or where huddling blackIlex on ilex cowers in awful shade.Then once more give them water sparingly,And feed once more, till sunset, when cool eveAllays the air, and dewy moonbeams slakeThe forest glades, with halcyon's song the shore,And every thicket with the goldfinch rings.Of Libya's shepherds why the tale pursue?Why sing their pastures and the scattered hutsThey house in? Oft their cattle day and nightGraze the whole month together, and go forthInto far deserts where no shelter is,So flat the plain and boundless. All his goodsThe Afric swain bears with him, house and home,Arms, Cretan quiver, and Amyclaean dog;As some keen Roman in his country's armsPlies the swift march beneath a cruel load;Soon with tents pitched and at his post he stands,Ere looked for by the foe. Not thus the tribesOf Scythia by the far Maeotic wave,Where turbid Ister whirls his yellow sands,And Rhodope stretched out beneath the poleComes trending backward. There the herds they keepClose-pent in byres, nor any grass is seenUpon the plain, nor leaves upon the tree:But with snow-ridges and deep frost afarHeaped seven ells high the earth lies featureless:Still winter? still the north wind's icy breath!Nay, never sun disparts the shadows pale,Or as he rides the steep of heaven, or dipsIn ocean's fiery bath his plunging car.Quick ice-crusts curdle on the running stream,And iron-hooped wheels the water's back now bears,To broad wains opened, as erewhile to ships;Brass vessels oft asunder burst, and clothesStiffen upon the wearers; juicy winesThey cleave with axes; to one frozen massWhole pools are turned; and on their untrimmed beardsStiff clings the jagged icicle. MeanwhileAll heaven no less is filled with falling snow;The cattle perish: oxen's mighty framesStand island-like amid the frost, and stagsIn huddling herds, by that strange weight benumbed,Scarce top the surface with their antler-points.These with no hounds they hunt, nor net with toils,Nor scare with terror of the crimson plume;But, as in vain they breast the opposing block,Butcher them, knife in hand, and so dispatchLoud-bellowing, and with glad shouts hale them home.Themselves in deep-dug caverns undergroundDwell free and careless; to their hearths they heaveOak-logs and elm-trees whole, and fire them there,There play the night out, and in festive gleeWith barm and service sour the wine-cup mock.So 'neath the seven-starred Hyperborean wainThe folk live tameless, buffeted with blastsOf Eurus from Rhipaean hills, and wrapTheir bodies in the tawny fells of beasts.If wool delight thee, first, be far removedAll prickly boskage, burrs and caltrops; shunLuxuriant pastures; at the outset chooseWhite flocks with downy fleeces. For the ram,How white soe'er himself, be but the tongue'Neath his moist palate black, reject him, lestHe sully with dark spots his offspring's fleece,And seek some other o'er the teeming plain.Even with such snowy bribe of wool, if earMay trust the tale, Pan, God of Arcady,Snared and beguiled thee, Luna, calling theeTo the deep woods; nor thou didst spurn his call.But who for milk hath longing, must himselfCarry lucerne and lotus-leaves enowWith salt herbs to the cote, whence more they loveThe streams, more stretch their udders, and give backA subtle taste of saltness in the milk.Many there be who from their mothers keepThe new-born kids, and straightway bind their mouthsWith iron-tipped muzzles. What they milk at dawn,Or in the daylight hours, at night they press;What darkling or at sunset, this ere mornThey bear away in baskets- for to townThe shepherd hies him- or with dash of saltJust sprinkle, and lay by for winter use.Nor be thy dogs last cared for; but alikeSwift Spartan hounds and fierce Molossian feedOn fattening whey. Never, with these to watch,Dread nightly thief afold and ravening wolves,Or Spanish desperadoes in the rear.And oft the shy wild asses thou wilt chase,With hounds, too, hunt the hare, with hounds the doe;Oft from his woodland wallowing-den uprouseThe boar, and scare him with their baying, and drive,And o'er the mountains urge into the toilsSome antlered monster to their chiming cry.Learn also scented cedar-wood to burnWithin the stalls, and snakes of noxious smellWith fumes of galbanum to drive away.Oft under long-neglected cribs, or lurksA viper ill to handle, that hath fledThe light in terror, or some snake, that wont'Neath shade and sheltering roof to creep, and showerIts bane among the cattle, hugs the ground,Fell scourge of kine. Shepherd, seize stakes, seize stones!And as he rears defiance, and puffs outA hissing throat, down with him! see how lowThat cowering crest is vailed in flight, the while,His midmost coils and final sweep of tailRelaxing, the last fold drags lingering spires.Then that vile worm that in Calabrian gladesUprears his breast, and wreathes a scaly back,His length of belly pied with mighty spots-While from their founts gush any streams, while yetWith showers of Spring and rainy south-winds earthIs moistened, lo! he haunts the pools, and hereHoused in the banks, with fish and chattering frogsCrams the black void of his insatiate maw.Soon as the fens are parched, and earth with heatIs gaping, forth he darts into the dry,Rolls eyes of fire and rages through the fields,Furious from thirst and by the drought dismayed.Me list not then beneath the open heavenTo snatch soft slumber, nor on forest-ridgeLie stretched along the grass, when, slipped his slough,To glittering youth transformed he winds his spires,And eggs or younglings leaving in his lair,Towers sunward, lightening with three-forked tongue.Of sickness, too, the causes and the signsI'll teach thee. Loathly scab assails the sheep,When chilly showers have probed them to the quick,And winter stark with hoar-frost, or when sweatUnpurged cleaves to them after shearing done,And rough thorns rend their bodies. Hence it isShepherds their whole flock steep in running streams,While, plunged beneath the flood, with drenched fell,The ram, launched free, goes drifting down the tide.Else, having shorn, they smear their bodies o'erWith acrid oil-lees, and mix silver-scumAnd native sulphur and Idaean pitch,Wax mollified with ointment, and therewithSea-leek, strong hellebores, bitumen black.Yet ne'er doth kindlier fortune crown his toil,Than if with blade of iron a man dare lanceThe ulcer's mouth ope: for the taint is fedAnd quickened by confinement; while the swainHis hand of healing from the wound withholds,Or sits for happier signs imploring heaven.Aye, and when inward to the bleater's bonesThe pain hath sunk and rages, and their limbsBy thirsty fever are consumed, 'tis goodTo draw the enkindled heat therefrom, and pierceWithin the hoof-clefts a blood-bounding vein.Of tribes Bisaltic such the wonted use,And keen Gelonian, when to RhodopeHe flies, or Getic desert, and quaffs milkWith horse-blood curdled.Seest one far afieldOft to the shade's mild covert win, or pullThe grass tops listlessly, or hindmost lag,Or, browsing, cast her down amid the plain,At night retire belated and alone;With quick knife check the mischief, ere it creepWith dire contagion through the unwary herd.Less thick and fast the whirlwind scours the mainWith tempest in its wake, than swarm the plaguesOf cattle; nor seize they single lives alone,But sudden clear whole feeding grounds, the flockWith all its promise, and extirpate the breed.Well would he trow it who, so long after, stillHigh Alps and Noric hill-forts should behold,And Iapydian Timavus' fields,Ay, still behold the shepherds' realms a waste,And far and wide the lawns untenanted.Here from distempered heavens erewhile aroseA piteous season, with the full fierce heatOf autumn glowed, and cattle-kindreds allAnd all wild creatures to destruction gave,Tainted the pools, the fodder charged with bane.Nor simple was the way of death, but whenHot thirst through every vein impelled had drawnTheir wretched limbs together, anon o'erflowedA watery flux, and all their bones piecemealSapped by corruption to itself absorbed.Oft in mid sacrifice to heaven- the whiteWool-woven fillet half wreathed about his brow-Some victim, standing by the altar, thereBetwixt the loitering carles a-dying fell:Or, if betimes the slaughtering priest had struck,Nor with its heaped entrails blazed the pile,Nor seer to seeker thence could answer yield;Nay, scarce the up-stabbing knife with blood was stained,Scarce sullied with thin gore the surface-sand.Hence die the calves in many a pasture fair,Or at full cribs their lives' sweet breath resign;Hence on the fawning dog comes madness, henceRacks the sick swine a gasping cough that chokesWith swelling at the jaws: the conquering steed,Uncrowned of effort and heedless of the sward,Faints, turns him from the springs, and paws the earthWith ceaseless hoof: low droop his ears, wherefromBursts fitful sweat, a sweat that waxes coldUpon the dying beast; the skin is dry,And rigidly repels the handler's touch.These earlier signs they give that presage doom.But, if the advancing plague 'gin fiercer grow,Then are their eyes all fire, deep-drawn their breath,At times groan-laboured: with long sobbing heaveTheir lowest flanks; from either nostril streamsBlack blood; a rough tongue clogs the obstructed jaws.'Twas helpful through inverted horn to pourDraughts of the wine-god down; sole way it seemedTo save the dying: soon this too proved their bane,And, reinvigorate but with frenzy's fire,Even at death's pinch- the gods some happier fateDeal to the just, such madness to their foes-Each with bared teeth his own limbs mangling tore.See! as he smokes beneath the stubborn share,The bull drops, vomiting foam-dabbled gore,And heaves his latest groans. Sad goes the swain,Unhooks the steer that mourns his fellow's fate,And in mid labour leaves the plough-gear fast.Nor tall wood's shadow, nor soft sward may stirThat heart's emotion, nor rock-channelled flood,More pure than amber speeding to the plain:But see! his flanks fail under him, his eyesAre dulled with deadly torpor, and his neckSinks to the earth with drooping weight. What nowBesteads him toil or service? to have turnedThe heavy sod with ploughshare? And yet theseNe'er knew the Massic wine-god's baneful boon,Nor twice replenished banquets: but on leavesThey fare, and virgin grasses, and their cupsAre crystal springs and streams with running tired,Their healthful slumbers never broke by care.Then only, say they, through that country sideFor Juno's rites were cattle far to seek,And ill-matched buffaloes the chariots drewTo their high fanes. So, painfully with rakesThey grub the soil, aye, with their very nailsDig in the corn-seeds, and with strained neckO'er the high uplands drag the creaking wains.No wolf for ambush pries about the pen,Nor round the flock prowls nightly; pain more sharpSubdues him: the shy deer and fleet-foot stagsWith hounds now wander by the haunts of menVast ocean's offspring, and all tribes that swim,On the shore's confine the wave washes up,Like shipwrecked bodies: seals, unwonted there,Flee to the rivers. Now the viper dies,For all his den's close winding, and with scalesErect the astonied water-worms. The airBrooks not the very birds, that headlong fall,And leave their life beneath the soaring cloud.Moreover now nor change of fodder serves,And subtlest cures but injure; then were foiledThe masters, Chiron sprung from Phillyron,And Amythaon's son Melampus. See!From Stygian darkness launched into the lightComes raging pale Tisiphone; she drivesDisease and fear before her, day by dayStill rearing higher that all-devouring head.With bleat of flocks and lowings thick resoundRivers and parched banks and sloping heights.At last in crowds she slaughters them, she chokesThe very stalls with carrion-heaps that rotIn hideous corruption, till men learnWith earth to cover them, in pits to hide.For e'en the fells are useless; nor the fleshWith water may they purge, or tame with fire,Nor shear the fleeces even, gnawed through and throughWith foul disease, nor touch the putrid webs;But, had one dared the loathly weeds to try,Red blisters and an unclean sweat o'erranHis noisome limbs, till, no long tarriance made,The fiery curse his tainted frame devoured.
Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I nowTake up the tale. Upon this theme no lessLook thou, Maecenas, with indulgent eye.A marvellous display of puny powers,High-hearted chiefs, a nation's history,Its traits, its bent, its battles and its clans,All, each, shall pass before you, while I sing.Slight though the poet's theme, not slight the praise,So frown not heaven, and Phoebus hear his call.First find your bees a settled sure abode,Where neither winds can enter (winds blow backThe foragers with food returning home)Nor sheep and butting kids tread down the flowers,Nor heifer wandering wide upon the plainDash off the dew, and bruise the springing blades.Let the gay lizard too keep far aloofHis scale-clad body from their honied stalls,And the bee-eater, and what birds beside,And Procne smirched with blood upon the breastFrom her own murderous hands. For these roam wideWasting all substance, or the bees themselvesStrike flying, and in their beaks bear home, to glutThose savage nestlings with the dainty prey.But let clear springs and moss-green pools be near,And through the grass a streamlet hurrying run,Some palm-tree o'er the porch extend its shade,Or huge-grown oleaster, that in Spring,Their own sweet Spring-tide, when the new-made chiefsLead forth the young swarms, and, escaped their comb,The colony comes forth to sport and play,The neighbouring bank may lure them from the heat,Or bough befriend with hospitable shade.O'er the mid-waters, whether swift or still,Cast willow-branches and big stones enow,Bridge after bridge, where they may footing findAnd spread their wide wings to the summer sun,If haply Eurus, swooping as they pause,Have dashed with spray or plunged them in the deep.And let green cassias and far-scented thymes,And savory with its heavy-laden breathBloom round about, and violet-beds hard bySip sweetness from the fertilizing springs.For the hive's self, or stitched of hollow bark,Or from tough osier woven, let the doorsBe strait of entrance; for stiff winter's coldCongeals the honey, and heat resolves and thaws,To bees alike disastrous; not for naughtSo haste they to cement the tiny poresThat pierce their walls, and fill the crevicesWith pollen from the flowers, and glean and keepTo this same end the glue, that binds more fastThan bird-lime or the pitch from Ida's pines.Oft too in burrowed holes, if fame be true,They make their cosy subterranean home,And deeply lodged in hollow rocks are found,Or in the cavern of an age-hewn tree.Thou not the less smear round their crannied cribsWith warm smooth mud-coat, and strew leaves above;But near their home let neither yew-tree grow,Nor reddening crabs be roasted, and mistrustDeep marish-ground and mire with noisome smell,Or where the hollow rocks sonorous ring,And the word spoken buffets and rebounds.What more? When now the golden sun has putWinter to headlong flight beneath the world,And oped the doors of heaven with summer ray,Forthwith they roam the glades and forests o'er,Rifle the painted flowers, or sip the streams,Light-hovering on the surface. Hence it isWith some sweet rapture, that we know not of,Their little ones they foster, hence with skillWork out new wax or clinging honey mould.So when the cage-escaped hosts you seeFloat heavenward through the hot clear air, untilYou marvel at yon dusky cloud that spreadsAnd lengthens on the wind, then mark them well;For then 'tis ever the fresh springs they seekAnd bowery shelter: hither must you bringThe savoury sweets I bid, and sprinkle them,Bruised balsam and the wax-flower's lowly weed,And wake and shake the tinkling cymbals heardBy the great Mother: on the anointed spotsThemselves will settle, and in wonted wiseSeek of themselves the cradle's inmost depth.But if to battle they have hied them forth-For oft 'twixt king and king with uproar direFierce feud arises, and at once from farYou may discern what passion sways the mob,And how their hearts are throbbing for the strife;Hark! the hoarse brazen note that warriors knowChides on the loiterers, and the ear may catchA sound that mocks the war-trump's broken blasts;Then in hot haste they muster, then flash wings,Sharpen their pointed beaks and knit their thews,And round the king, even to his royal tent,Throng rallying, and with shouts defy the foe.So, when a dry Spring and clear space is given,Forth from the gates they burst, they clash on high;A din arises; they are heaped and rolledInto one mighty mass, and headlong fall,Not denselier hail through heaven, nor pelting soRains from the shaken oak its acorn-shower.Conspicuous by their wings the chiefs themselvesPress through the heart of battle, and displayA giant's spirit in each pigmy frame,Steadfast no inch to yield till these or thoseThe victor's ponderous arm has turned to flight.Such fiery passions and such fierce assaultsA little sprinkled dust controls and quells.And now, both leaders from the field recalled,Who hath the worser seeming, do to death,Lest royal waste wax burdensome, but letHis better lord it on the empty throne.One with gold-burnished flakes will shine like fire,For twofold are their kinds, the nobler he,Of peerless front and lit with flashing scales;That other, from neglect and squalor foul,Drags slow a cumbrous belly. As with kings,So too with people, diverse is their mould,Some rough and loathly, as when the wayfarerScapes from a whirl of dust, and scorched with heatSpits forth the dry grit from his parched mouth:The others shine forth and flash with lightning-gleam,Their backs all blazoned with bright drops of goldSymmetric: this the likelier breed; from these,When heaven brings round the season, thou shalt strainSweet honey, nor yet so sweet as passing clear,And mellowing on the tongue the wine-god's fire.But when the swarms fly aimlessly abroad,Disport themselves in heaven and spurn their cells,Leaving the hive unwarmed, from such vain playMust you refrain their volatile desires,Nor hard the task: tear off the monarchs' wings;While these prove loiterers, none beside will dareMount heaven, or pluck the standards from the camp.Let gardens with the breath of saffron flowersAllure them, and the lord of Hellespont,Priapus, wielder of the willow-scythe,Safe in his keeping hold from birds and thieves.And let the man to whom such cares are dearHimself bring thyme and pine-trees from the heights,And strew them in broad belts about their home;No hand but his the blistering task should ply,Plant the young slips, or shed the genial showers.And I myself, were I not even nowFurling my sails, and, nigh the journey's end,Eager to turn my vessel's prow to shore,Perchance would sing what careful husbandryMakes the trim garden smile; of Paestum too,Whose roses bloom and fade and bloom again;How endives glory in the streams they drink,And green banks in their parsley, and how the gourdTwists through the grass and rounds him to paunch;Nor of Narcissus had my lips been dumb,That loiterer of the flowers, nor supple-stemmedAcanthus, with the praise of ivies pale,And myrtles clinging to the shores they love.For 'neath the shade of tall Oebalia's towers,Where dark Galaesus laves the yellowing fields,An old man once I mind me to have seen-From Corycus he came- to whom had fallenSome few poor acres of neglected land,And they nor fruitful' neath the plodding steer,Meet for the grazing herd, nor good for vines.Yet he, the while his meagre garden-herbsAmong the thorns he planted, and all roundWhite lilies, vervains, and lean poppy set,In pride of spirit matched the wealth of kings,And home returning not till night was late,With unbought plenty heaped his board on high.He was the first to cull the rose in spring,He the ripe fruits in autumn; and ere yetWinter had ceased in sullen ire to riveThe rocks with frost, and with her icy bitCurb in the running waters, there was hePlucking the rathe faint hyacinth, while he chidSummer's slow footsteps and the lagging West.Therefore he too with earliest brooding beesAnd their full swarms o'erflowed, and first was heTo press the bubbling honey from the comb;Lime-trees were his, and many a branching pine;And all the fruits wherewith in early bloomThe orchard-tree had clothed her, in full taleHung there, by mellowing autumn perfected.He too transplanted tall-grown elms a-row,Time-toughened pear, thorns bursting with the plumAnd plane now yielding serviceable shadeFor dry lips to drink under: but these things,Shut off by rigorous limits, I pass by,And leave for others to sing after me.Come, then, I will unfold the natural powersGreat Jove himself upon the bees bestowed,The boon for which, led by the shrill sweet strainsOf the Curetes and their clashing brass,They fed the King of heaven in Dicte's cave.Alone of all things they receive and holdCommunity of offspring, and they houseTogether in one city, and beneathThe shelter of majestic laws they live;And they alone fixed home and country know,And in the summer, warned of coming cold,Make proof of toil, and for the general storeHoard up their gathered harvesting. For someWatch o'er the victualling of the hive, and theseBy settled order ply their tasks afield;And some within the confines of their homePlant firm the comb's first layer, Narcissus' tear,And sticky gum oozed from the bark of trees,Then set the clinging wax to hang therefrom.Others the while lead forth the full-grown young,Their country's hope, and others press and packThe thrice repured honey, and stretch their cellsTo bursting with the clear-strained nectar sweet.Some, too, the wardship of the gates befalls,Who watch in turn for showers and cloudy skies,Or ease returning labourers of their load,Or form a band and from their precincts driveThe drones, a lazy herd. How glows the work!How sweet the honey smells of perfumed thymeLike the Cyclopes, when in haste they forgeFrom the slow-yielding ore the thunderbolts,Some from the bull's-hide bellows in and outLet the blasts drive, some dip i' the water-troughThe sputtering metal: with the anvil's weightGroans Etna: they alternately in timeWith giant strength uplift their sinewy arms,Or twist the iron with the forceps' grip-Not otherwise, to measure small with great,The love of getting planted in their breastsGoads on the bees, that haunt old Cecrops' heights,Each in his sphere to labour. The old have chargeTo keep the town, and build the walled combs,And mould the cunning chambers; but the youth,Their tired legs packed with thyme, come labouring homeBelated, for afar they range to feedOn arbutes and the grey-green willow-leaves,And cassia and the crocus blushing red,Glue-yielding limes, and hyacinths dusky-eyed.One hour for rest have all, and one for toil:With dawn they hurry from the gates- no roomFor loiterers there: and once again, when evenNow bids them quit their pasturing on the plain,Then homeward make they, then refresh their strength:A hum arises: hark! they buzz and buzzAbout the doors and threshold; till at lengthSafe laid to rest they hush them for the night,And welcome slumber laps their weary limbs.But from the homestead not too far they fare,When showers hang like to fall, nor, east winds nigh,Confide in heaven, but 'neath the city wallsSafe-circling fetch them water, or essayBrief out-goings, and oft weigh-up tiny stones,As light craft ballast in the tossing tide,Wherewith they poise them through the cloudy vast.This law of life, too, by the bees obeyed,Will move thy wonder, that nor sex with sexYoke they in marriage, nor yield their limbs to love,Nor know the pangs of labour, but aloneFrom leaves and honied herbs, the mothers, each,Gather their offspring in their mouths, aloneSupply new kings and pigmy commonwealth,And their old court and waxen realm repair.Oft, too, while wandering, against jagged stonesTheir wings they fray, and 'neath the burden yieldTheir liberal lives: so deep their love of flowers,So glorious deem they honey's proud acquist.Therefore, though each a life of narrow span,Ne'er stretched to summers more than seven, befalls,Yet deathless doth the race endure, and stillPerennial stands the fortune of their line,From grandsire unto grandsire backward told.Moreover, not Aegyptus, nor the realmOf boundless Lydia, no, nor Parthia's hordes,Nor Median Hydaspes, to their kingDo such obeisance: lives the king unscathed,One will inspires the million: is he dead,Snapt is the bond of fealty; they themselvesRavage their toil-wrought honey, and rend amainTheir own comb's waxen trellis. He is the lordOf all their labour; him with awful eyeThey reverence, and with murmuring throngs surround,In crowds attend, oft shoulder him on high,Or with their bodies shield him in the fight,And seek through showering wounds a glorious death.Led by these tokens, and with such traits to guide,Some say that unto bees a share is givenOf the Divine Intelligence, and to drinkPure draughts of ether; for God permeates all-Earth, and wide ocean, and the vault of heaven-From whom flocks, herds, men, beasts of every kind,Draw each at birth the fine essential flame;Yea, and that all things hence to Him return,Brought back by dissolution, nor can deathFind place: but, each into his starry rank,Alive they soar, and mount the heights of heaven.If now their narrow home thou wouldst unseal,And broach the treasures of the honey-house,With draught of water first toment thy lips,And spread before thee fumes of trailing smoke.Twice is the teeming produce gathered in,Twofold their time of harvest year by year,Once when Taygete the Pleiad upliftsHer comely forehead for the earth to see,With foot of scorn spurning the ocean-streams,Once when in gloom she flies the watery Fish,And dips from heaven into the wintry wave.Unbounded then their wrath; if hurt, they breatheVenom into their bite, cleave to the veinsAnd let the sting lie buried, and leave their livesBehind them in the wound. But if you dreadToo rigorous a winter, and would fainTemper the coming time, and their bruised heartsAnd broken estate to pity move thy soul,Yet who would fear to fumigate with thyme,Or cut the empty wax away? for oftInto their comb the newt has gnawed unseen,And the light-loathing beetles crammed their bed,And he that sits at others' board to feast,The do-naught drone; or 'gainst the unequal foeSwoops the fierce hornet, or the moth's fell tribe;Or spider, victim of Minerva's spite,Athwart the doorway hangs her swaying net.The more impoverished they, the keenlier allTo mend the fallen fortunes of their raceWill nerve them, fill the cells up, tier on tier,And weave their granaries from the rifled flowers.Now, seeing that life doth even to bee-folk bringOur human chances, if in dire diseaseTheir bodies' strength should languish- which anonBy no uncertain tokens may be told-Forthwith the sick change hue; grim leanness marsTheir visage; then from out the cells they bearForms reft of light, and lead the mournful pomp;Or foot to foot about the porch they hang,Or within closed doors loiter, listless allFrom famine, and benumbed with shrivelling cold.Then is a deep note heard, a long-drawn hum,As when the chill South through the forests sighs,As when the troubled ocean hoarsely boomsWith back-swung billow, as ravening tide of fireSurges, shut fast within the furnace-walls.Then do I bid burn scented galbanum,And, honey-streams through reeden troughs instilled,Challenge and cheer their flagging appetiteTo taste the well-known food; and it shall bootTo mix therewith the savour bruised from gall,And rose-leaves dried, or must to thickness boiledBy a fierce fire, or juice of raisin-grapesFrom Psithian vine, and with its bitter smellCentaury, and the famed Cecropian thyme.There is a meadow-flower by country folkHight star-wort; 'tis a plant not far to seek;For from one sod an ample growth it rears,Itself all golden, but girt with plenteous leaves,Where glory of purple shines through violet gloom.With chaplets woven hereof full oft are deckedHeaven's altars: harsh its taste upon the tongue;Shepherds in vales smooth-shorn of nibbling flocksBy Mella's winding waters gather it.The roots of this, well seethed in fragrant wine,Set in brimmed baskets at their doors for food.But if one's whole stock fail him at a stroke,Nor hath he whence to breed the race anew,'Tis time the wondrous secret to discloseTaught by the swain of Arcady, even howThe blood of slaughtered bullocks oft has borneBees from corruption. I will trace me backTo its prime source the story's tangled thread,And thence unravel. For where thy happy folk,Canopus, city of Pellaean fame,Dwell by the Nile's lagoon-like overflow,And high o'er furrows they have called their ownSkim in their painted wherries; where, hard by,The quivered Persian presses, and that floodWhich from the swart-skinned Aethiop bears him down,Swift-parted into sevenfold branching mouthsWith black mud fattens and makes Aegypt green,That whole domain its welfare's hope secureRests on this art alone. And first is chosenA strait recess, cramped closer to this end,Which next with narrow roof of tiles atop'Twixt prisoning walls they pinch, and add heretoFrom the four winds four slanting window-slits.Then seek they from the herd a steer, whose hornsWith two years' growth are curling, and stop fast,Plunge madly as he may, the panting mouthAnd nostrils twain, and done with blows to death,Batter his flesh to pulp i' the hide yet whole,And shut the doors, and leave him there to lie.But 'neath his ribs they scatter broken boughs,With thyme and fresh-pulled cassias: this is doneWhen first the west winds bid the waters flow,Ere flush the meadows with new tints, and ereThe twittering swallow buildeth from the beams.Meanwhile the juice within his softened bonesHeats and ferments, and things of wondrous birth,Footless at first, anon with feet and wings,Swarm there and buzz, a marvel to behold;And more and more the fleeting breeze they take,Till, like a shower that pours from summer-clouds,Forth burst they, or like shafts from quivering stringWhen Parthia's flying hosts provoke the fray.Say what was he, what God, that fashioned forthThis art for us, O Muses? of man's skillWhence came the new adventure? From thy vale,Peneian Tempe, turning, bee-bereft,So runs the tale, by famine and disease,Mournful the shepherd Aristaeus stoodFast by the haunted river-head, and thusWith many a plaint to her that bare him cried:"Mother, Cyrene, mother, who hast thy homeBeneath this whirling flood, if he thou sayest,Apollo, lord of Thymbra, be my sire,Sprung from the Gods' high line, why barest thou meWith fortune's ban for birthright? Where is nowThy love to me-ward banished from thy breast?O! wherefore didst thou bid me hope for heaven?Lo! even the crown of this poor mortal life,Which all my skilful care by field and fold,No art neglected, scarce had fashioned forth,Even this falls from me, yet thou call'st me son.Nay, then, arise! With thine own hands pluck upMy fruit-plantations: on the homestead flingPitiless fire; make havoc of my crops;Burn the young plants, and wield the stubborn axeAgainst my vines, if there hath taken theSuch loathing of my greatness." But that cry,Even from her chamber in the river-deeps,His mother heard: around her spun the nymphsMilesian wool stained through with hyaline dye,Drymo, Xantho, Ligea, Phyllodoce,Their glossy locks o'er snowy shoulders shed,Cydippe and Lycorias yellow-haired,A maiden one, one newly learned even thenTo bear Lucina's birth-pang. Clio, too,And Beroe, sisters, ocean-children both,Both zoned with gold and girt with dappled fell,Ephyre and Opis, and from Asian meadsDeiopea, and, bow at length laid by,Fleet-footed Arethusa. But in their midstFair Clymene was telling o'er the taleOf Vulcan's idle vigilance and the stealthOf Mars' sweet rapine, and from Chaos oldCounted the jostling love-joys of the Gods.Charmed by whose lay, the while their woolly tasksWith spindles down they drew, yet once againSmote on his mother's ears the mournful plaintOf Aristaeus; on their glassy thronesAmazement held them all; but ArethuseBefore the rest put forth her auburn head,Peering above the wave-top, and from farExclaimed, "Cyrene, sister, not for naughtScared by a groan so deep, behold! 'tis he,Even Aristaeus, thy heart's fondest care,Here by the brink of the Peneian sireStands woebegone and weeping, and by nameCries out upon thee for thy cruelty."To whom, strange terror knocking at her heart,"Bring, bring him to our sight," the mother cried;"His feet may tread the threshold even of Gods."So saying, she bids the flood yawn wide and yieldA pathway for his footsteps; but the waveArched mountain-wise closed round him, and withinIts mighty bosom welcomed, and let speedTo the deep river-bed. And now, with eyesOf wonder gazing on his mother's hallAnd watery kingdom and cave-prisoned poolsAnd echoing groves, he went, and, stunned by thatStupendous whirl of waters, separate sawAll streams beneath the mighty earth that glide,Phasis and Lycus, and that fountain-headWhence first the deep Enipeus leaps to light,Whence father Tiber, and whence Anio's flood,And Hypanis that roars amid his rocks,And Mysian Caicus, and, bull-browed'Twixt either gilded horn, Eridanus,Than whom none other through the laughing plainsMore furious pours into the purple sea.Soon as the chamber's hanging roof of stoneWas gained, and now Cyrene from her sonHad heard his idle weeping, in due courseClear water for his hands the sisters bring,With napkins of shorn pile, while others heapThe board with dainties, and set on afreshThe brimming goblets; with Panchaian firesUpleap the altars; then the mother spake,"Take beakers of Maconian wine," she said,"Pour we to Ocean." Ocean, sire of all,She worships, and the sister-nymphs who guardThe hundred forests and the hundred streams;Thrice Vesta's fire with nectar clear she dashed,Thrice to the roof-top shot the flame and shone:Armed with which omen she essayed to speak:"In Neptune's gulf Carpathian dwells a seer,Caerulean Proteus, he who metes the mainWith fish-drawn chariot of two-footed steeds;Now visits he his native home once more,Pallene and the Emathian ports; to himWe nymphs do reverence, ay, and Nereus old;For all things knows the seer, both those which areAnd have been, or which time hath yet to bring;So willed it Neptune, whose portentous flocks,And loathly sea-calves 'neath the surge he feeds.Him first, my son, behoves thee seize and bindThat he may all the cause of sickness show,And grant a prosperous end. For save by forceNo rede will he vouchsafe, nor shalt thou bendHis soul by praying; whom once made captive, plyWith rigorous force and fetters; against theseHis wiles will break and spend themselves in vain.I, when the sun has lit his noontide fires,When the blades thirst, and cattle love the shade,Myself will guide thee to the old man's haunt,Whither he hies him weary from the waves,That thou mayst safelier steal upon his sleep.But when thou hast gripped him fast with hand and gyve,Then divers forms and bestial semblancesShall mock thy grasp; for sudden he will changeTo bristly boar, fell tigress, dragon scaled,And tawny-tufted lioness, or send forthA crackling sound of fire, and so shake ofThe fetters, or in showery drops anonDissolve and vanish. But the more he shiftsHis endless transformations, thou, my son,More straitlier clench the clinging bands, untilHis body's shape return to that thou sawest,When with closed eyelids first he sank to sleep."So saying, an odour of ambrosial dewShe sheds around, and all his frame therewithSteeps throughly; forth from his trim-combed locksBreathed effluence sweet, and a lithe vigour leaptInto his limbs. There is a cavern vastScooped in the mountain-side, where wave on waveBy the wind's stress is driven, and breaks far upIts inmost creeks- safe anchorage from of oldFor tempest-taken mariners: therewithin,Behind a rock's huge barrier, Proteus hides.Here in close covert out of the sun's eyeThe youth she places, and herself the whileSwathed in a shadowy mist stands far aloof.And now the ravening dog-star that burns upThe thirsty Indians blazed in heaven; his courseThe fiery sun had half devoured: the bladesWere parched, and the void streams with droughty jawsBaked to their mud-beds by the scorching ray,When Proteus seeking his accustomed caveStrode from the billows: round him frolickingThe watery folk that people the waste seaSprinkled the bitter brine-dew far and wide.Along the shore in scattered groups to feedThe sea-calves stretch them: while the seer himself,Like herdsman on the hills when evening bidsThe steers from pasture to their stall repair,And the lambs' bleating whets the listening wolves,Sits midmost on the rock and tells his tale.But Aristaeus, the foe within his clutch,Scarce suffering him compose his aged limbs,With a great cry leapt on him, and ere he roseForestalled him with the fetters; he nathless,All unforgetful of his ancient craft,Transforms himself to every wondrous thing,Fire and a fearful beast, and flowing stream.But when no trickery found a path for flight,Baffled at length, to his own shape returned,With human lips he spake, "Who bade thee, then,So reckless in youth's hardihood, affrontOur portals? or what wouldst thou hence?"- But he,"Proteus, thou knowest, of thine own heart thou knowest;For thee there is no cheating, but cease thouTo practise upon me: at heaven's behestI for my fainting fortunes hither comeAn oracle to ask thee." There he ceased.Whereat the seer, by stubborn force constrained,Shot forth the grey light of his gleaming eyesUpon him, and with fiercely gnashing teethUnlocks his lips to spell the fates of heaven:"Doubt not 'tis wrath divine that plagues thee thus,Nor light the debt thou payest; 'tis Orpheus' self,Orpheus unhappy by no fault of his,So fates prevent not, fans thy penal fires,Yet madly raging for his ravished bride.She in her haste to shun thy hot pursuitAlong the stream, saw not the coming death,Where at her feet kept ward upon the bankIn the tall grass a monstrous water-snake.But with their cries the Dryad-band her peersFilled up the mountains to their proudest peaks:Wailed for her fate the heights of Rhodope,And tall Pangaea, and, beloved of Mars,The land that bowed to Rhesus, Thrace no lessWith Hebrus' stream; and Orithyia wept,Daughter of Acte old. But Orpheus' self,Soothing his love-pain with the hollow shell,Thee his sweet wife on the lone shore alone,Thee when day dawned and when it died he sang.Nay to the jaws of Taenarus too he came,Of Dis the infernal palace, and the groveGrim with a horror of great darkness- came,Entered, and faced the Manes and the KingOf terrors, the stone heart no prayer can tame.Then from the deepest deeps of Erebus,Wrung by his minstrelsy, the hollow shadesCame trooping, ghostly semblances of formsLost to the light, as birds by myriads hieTo greenwood boughs for cover, when twilight-hourOr storms of winter chase them from the hills;Matrons and men, and great heroic framesDone with life's service, boys, unwedded girls,Youths placed on pyre before their fathers' eyes.Round them, with black slime choked and hideous weed,Cocytus winds; there lies the unlovely swampOf dull dead water, and, to pen them fast,Styx with her ninefold barrier poured between.Nay, even the deep Tartarean Halls of deathStood lost in wonderment, and the Eumenides,Their brows with livid locks of serpents twined;Even Cerberus held his triple jaws agape,And, the wind hushed, Ixion's wheel stood still.And now with homeward footstep he had passedAll perils scathless, and, at length restored,Eurydice to realms of upper airHad well-nigh won, behind him following-So Proserpine had ruled it- when his heartA sudden mad desire surprised and seized-Meet fault to be forgiven, might Hell forgive.For at the very threshold of the day,Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve,He stopped, turned, looked upon EurydiceHis own once more. But even with the look,Poured out was all his labour, broken the bondOf that fell tyrant, and a crash was heardThree times like thunder in the meres of hell.'Orpheus! what ruin hath thy frenzy wroughtOn me, alas! and thee? Lo! once againThe unpitying fates recall me, and dark sleepCloses my swimming eyes. And now farewell:Girt with enormous night I am borne away,Outstretching toward thee, thine, alas! no more,These helpless hands.' She spake, and suddenly,Like smoke dissolving into empty air,Passed and was sundered from his sight; nor himClutching vain shadows, yearning sore to speak,Thenceforth beheld she, nor no second timeHell's boatman brooks he pass the watery bar.What should he do? fly whither, twice bereaved?Move with what tears the Manes, with what voiceThe Powers of darkness? She indeed even nowDeath-cold was floating on the Stygian barge!For seven whole months unceasingly, men say,Beneath a skyey crag, by thy lone wave,Strymon, he wept, and in the caverns chillUnrolled his story, melting tigers' hearts,And leading with his lay the oaks along.As in the poplar-shade a nightingaleMourns her lost young, which some relentless swain,Spying, from the nest has torn unfledged, but sheWails the long night, and perched upon a sprayWith sad insistence pipes her dolorous strain,Till all the region with her wrongs o'erflows.No love, no new desire, constrained his soul:By snow-bound Tanais and the icy north,Far steppes to frost Rhipaean forever wed,Alone he wandered, lost EurydiceLamenting, and the gifts of Dis ungiven.Scorned by which tribute the Ciconian dames,Amid their awful Bacchanalian ritesAnd midnight revellings, tore him limb from limb,And strewed his fragments over the wide fields.Then too, even then, what time the Hebrus stream,Oeagrian Hebrus, down mid-current rolled,Rent from the marble neck, his drifting head,The death-chilled tongue found yet a voice to cry'Eurydice! ah! poor Eurydice!'With parting breath he called her, and the banksFrom the broad stream caught up 'Eurydice!'"So Proteus ending plunged into the deep,And, where he plunged, beneath the eddying whirlChurned into foam the water, and was gone;But not Cyrene, who unquestioned thusBespake the trembling listener: "Nay, my son,From that sad bosom thou mayst banish care:Hence came that plague of sickness, hence the nymphs,With whom in the tall woods the dance she wove,Wrought on thy bees, alas! this deadly bane.Bend thou before the Dell-nymphs, gracious powers:Bring gifts, and sue for pardon: they will grantPeace to thine asking, and an end of wrath.But how to approach them will I first unfold-Four chosen bulls of peerless form and bulk,That browse to-day the green Lycaean heights,Pick from thy herds, as many kine to match,Whose necks the yoke pressed never: then for theseBuild up four altars by the lofty fanes,And from their throats let gush the victims' blood,And in the greenwood leave their bodies lone.Then, when the ninth dawn hath displayed its beams,To Orpheus shalt thou send his funeral dues,Poppies of Lethe, and let slay a sheepCoal-black, then seek the grove again, and soonFor pardon found adore EurydiceWith a slain calf for victim."No delay:The self-same hour he hies him forth to doHis mother's bidding: to the shrine he came,The appointed altars reared, and thither ledFour chosen bulls of peerless form and bulk,With kine to match, that never yoke had known;Then, when the ninth dawn had led in the day,To Orpheus sent his funeral dues, and soughtThe grove once more. But sudden, strange to tellA portent they espy: through the oxen's flesh,Waxed soft in dissolution, hark! there humBees from the belly; the rent ribs overboilIn endless clouds they spread them, till at lastOn yon tree-top together fused they cling,And drop their cluster from the bending boughs.So sang I of the tilth of furrowed fields,Of flocks and trees, while Caesar's majestyLaunched forth the levin-bolts of war by deepEuphrates, and bare rule o'er willing folkThough vanquished, and essayed the heights of heaven.I Virgil then, of sweet ParthenopeThe nursling, wooed the flowery walks of peaceInglorious, who erst trilled for shepherd-wightsThe wanton ditty, and sang in saucy youth