II.The Bee.

“A bee among the flowers in spring is one of the cheerfullest things that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be all enjoyment: so busy, and so pleased.” Any one who has wandered about the fields during the warmer months will assuredly agree with this opinion of Paley. The very hum of the bee, as it flies past us on its pleasant errand, in quest of some sweet flower, or returning with its dainty load, is one of the most cheery of the voices of summer. The movement of the little creature, also, is full of meaning, and attracts the eye as curiously characteristic of its nature; it generally flies in lines more or less direct; we see here nothing of the idle, roaming, vagrant flutter of the gaudy butterfly, and nothing of the doubtful, hesitating, over-cautious pause of the plodding ant. The instincts of the bee are all lively and vigorous; it seems conscious that wherever grass grows, there some blossom will be found to reward its search, and it moves steadilyonward until a head of clover, or perchance a prouder flower, offers the precious drop. And, alighting to gather its grateful harvest, how skillfully its work is carried on; other insects may show as much cleverness in attaining their end, but there are few indeed which accomplish their task so pleasantly. The wise little bee does no mischief; no violence marks her labors; the freshness of the flower remains unsullied by her passage; she leaves the gay petals and the green foliage alike uninjured; no plant suffers from her visits! There is nothing unsightly, nothing repelling or painful in any of her measures; all is order, nicety, and harmony. If we may believe Milton, to watch the bee at her task was a pleasure worthy of Paradise. Adam, when he awakens Eve, invites her to prune her vines, to prop her flowers, and to mark

. . . . “How the beeSits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweets.”

. . . . “How the bee

Sits on the bloom, extracting liquid sweets.”

As a poetical accessory of rural life, the bee was much honored by the ancient writers, receiving at their hands far more notice than has fallen to her share in later times. The reader is already aware that the Fourth Georgic of Virgil, relating wholly to bees, takes the first rank among the most beautiful and perfect of Latin poems. Extracts from Sotheby’s translations of this Georgic are given among the following Selections. It is amusing to note some of the errors and misconceptions of the master regarding the habits of those little creatures; and yet it is generally admitted, that from the great attention paid to them, the ancients had more correct notions regarding the bee than on any other subject of natural history.

TO THE BEES.

FROM THE GREEK OF ZONAS.

Ye nimble, honey-making bees,The flowers are in their prime;Come, now, and taste the little budsOf sweetly breathing thyme;Of tender poppies all so fair,Or bits of raisin sweet,Or down that decks the apple tribe,Or fragrant violet:Come, nibble on, your vessels storeWith honey while you can,In order that the hive-protecting,Bee-preserving PanMay have a tasting for himself;And that the hand so rude,That cuts away the combs, may leaveFor yourselves a little food.Translation ofW. Hay

Ye nimble, honey-making bees,

The flowers are in their prime;

Come, now, and taste the little buds

Of sweetly breathing thyme;

Of tender poppies all so fair,

Or bits of raisin sweet,

Or down that decks the apple tribe,

Or fragrant violet:

Come, nibble on, your vessels store

With honey while you can,

In order that the hive-protecting,

Bee-preserving Pan

May have a tasting for himself;

And that the hand so rude,

That cuts away the combs, may leave

For yourselves a little food.

Translation ofW. Hay

FROM THE GREEK OF ANTIPHILUS.

O beautiful bee homestead,With many a waxen cell,Self-built—for hanging, so it seems—That airy citadel!An unbought blessing to man’s life,Which neither plow nor hoe,Nor axe nor crooked sickle,Is needed to bestow;A tiny vessel—and no more—Wherein the busy beeFrom its small body liquid sweetsDistilleth lavishly.Rejoice, ye blessed creatures!Regaling while ye rove,Winged workers of nectareous food,On all the flowers ye love.Translation ofJohn Wilson.

O beautiful bee homestead,

With many a waxen cell,

Self-built—for hanging, so it seems—

That airy citadel!

An unbought blessing to man’s life,

Which neither plow nor hoe,

Nor axe nor crooked sickle,

Is needed to bestow;

A tiny vessel—and no more—

Wherein the busy bee

From its small body liquid sweets

Distilleth lavishly.

Rejoice, ye blessed creatures!

Regaling while ye rove,

Winged workers of nectareous food,

On all the flowers ye love.

Translation ofJohn Wilson.

THE BEE.

FROM THE GREEK OF NICIAS, 280 B. C.

Many-colored, sunshine-loving,Spring-betokening bee!Yellow bee, so mad for loveOf early-blooming flowers—Till thy waxen cell be full.Fair fall thy work and thee,Buzzing round the sweetly-smellingGarden plots and bowers.Anonymous Translator

Many-colored, sunshine-loving,

Spring-betokening bee!

Yellow bee, so mad for love

Of early-blooming flowers—

Till thy waxen cell be full.

Fair fall thy work and thee,

Buzzing round the sweetly-smelling

Garden plots and bowers.

Anonymous Translator

FROM THE FOURTH GEORGIC OF VIRGIL.

* * * * *First, seek a station where no ruthless galeDares the still hive and sheltered bees assail:Lest as they homeward droop, o’erdone with toil,Inclement blasts their loaded flight despoil;Far from the sheep that wasted earth devour,The wanton bird that bounds from flower to flower;Heifers whose roving steps the meadow bruise,And dash from springing herbs nectareous dews.There let no lizard, armed with burnished scale,Merops, or bird of prey, their wall assail,Nor Progne haunt, whose conscious plumes attestThe blood-stained hand imprinted on her breast.These widely waste, and, seiz’d upon the wing,To feed their nest, the bee in triumph bring.But there let pools invite with moss array’d,Clear fount and rill that purls along the glade,Palms o’er their porch a grateful gloom extend,And the wild olive’s shelt’ring boughs defend.There where new kings the swarms at spring-tide lead,And bursting myriads gladden all the mead,Dim banks at noon may lure to cool repose,And trees with hospitable arms inclose.If sleep the stagnant pools, or currents flow,Huge stones and willows 'mid the water throw;That if a breeze across their passage sweep,And headlong drive the loiterer to the deep,On many a bridge the bee may safely stand,And his wet plumes to summer suns expand.There all her sweets let savory exhale,Thyme breathe her soul of fragrance on the galeIn dulcet streams her roots green casia lave,And beds of violets drink at will the wave.Alike, if hollow cork their fabric form,Or flexile twigs inclose the settled swarm;With narrow entrance guard the shelter’d cell,And summer suns and winter blasts repel.Dire each extreme; or winter cakes with cold,Or summer melts the comb to fluid gold.Hence not in vain the bees their domes prepare,And smear the chinks that open to the air;With flowers and fucus close each pervious poreWith wax cement, and thicken o’er and o’er.Stor’d for this use they hive the clammy dew,And load their garners with tenacious glue,As birdlime thick, or pitch that slow distilsIn loitering drops on Ida’s pine-crowned hillsAnd oft, ’tis said, they delve beneath the earth,And nurse in gloomy caves their hidden birth,Amid the crumbling stone’s dark concave dwell,Or hang in hollow trees their airy cell.Thou aid their toil! with mud their walls o’erlay,And lightly shade the roof with leafy spray.There let no yew its baleful shadow cast,Nor crabs on glowing embers taint the blast.Far from their roof deep fens that poison breathe,Thick fogs that float from bed of mud beneath,Caves from whose depth redoubled echoes rise,And rock on rock in circling shout replies.Now when the sun beneath the realms of nightDark winter drives, and robes the heavens with light.The bees o’er hill and dale, from flow’r to flow’r,In grove and lawn the purple spring devour,Sip on the wing, and, lightly bursting, laveTheir airy plumage in its undimpled wave.* * * * *Ah, fav’rite scenes! but now with gather’d sailI seek the shore, nor trust th’ inviting gale;Else had my song your charms at leisure trac’d,And all the garden’s varied arts embrac’d;Sung, twice each year, how Pæstan roses blow,How endive drinks the rill that purls below,How twisting gourds pursue their mazy way,Swell as they creep, and widen into day;How verdant celery decks its humid bed,How late-blown flow’rets round narcissus spread;The lithe acanthus, and the ivy hoar,And myrtle blooming on the sea-beat shore.Yes, I remember where Galæsus leadsHis flood dark-winding through the golden meads,Where proud Œbalia’s tow’rs o’erlook the plain,Once I beheld an old Corcyrian swain;Lord of a little spot, by all disdain’d,Where never lab’ring yoke subsistence gain’d,Where never shepherd gave his flock to feed,Nor Bacchus dar’d to trust th’ ungrateful mead,He there with scanty herbs the bushes crown’d,And planted lilies, vervains, poppies round;Nor envied kings, when late, at twilight close,Beneath his peaceful shed he sought repose,And cull’d from earth, with changeful plenty stor’d,Th’ unpurchas’d feasts that pil’d his varied board.At spring-tide first he pluck’d the full-blown rose,From autumn first the ripen’d apple chose;And e’en when winter split the rocks with cold,And chain’d the o’erhanging torrent as it roll’d,His blooming hyacinths, ne’er known to fail,Shed scents unborrow’d of the vernal gale,As 'mid their rifled beds he wound his way,Chid the slow sun, and zephyr’s long delay.Hence first his bees new swarms unnumber’d gave,And press’d from richest combs the golden wave;Limes round his haunts diffus’d a grateful shade,And verdant pines with many a cone array’d;And every bud that gemm’d the vernal spray,Swell’d into fruit beneath th’ autumnal ray.He lofty elms, transpos’d in order, plac’d,Luxuriant pears at will his alleys grac’d,And grafted thorns that blushing plumes display’d,And plains that stretch’d o’er summer feasts their shade.Ah! fav’rite scenes! to other bards resign’d,I leave your charms, and trace my task assign’d.* * * * *To each his part; age claims th’ entrusted careTo rear the palace, and the dome repair;The young, returning home at dead of night,Faint, droop beneath the thyme that loads their flight.Where’er a willow waves, or arbute grows,Or casia scents the gale, or crocus glows,Or hyacinth unfolds its purple hue,Flow’r, shrub, and grove, for them their sweets renew.Alike they labor, and alike repose;Forth from their gates each morn the nation flows;And when pale twilight, from the wasted mead,Bids the tir’d race, o’ercharg’d with spoil, recede,They seek their roof, their drooping frame revive,And shake with ceaseless hum the crowded hive.Deep calm succeeds, each laid within his cell,Where sleep and peace without a murmur dwell.If tempests low’r, or blustering Eurus sound,Prescient they creep their city walls around,Sip the pure rill that near their portal springs,And bound their wary flight in narrower rings,And with light pebbles, like a balanc’d boat,Pois’d through the air on even pinions float.* * * * *Not Lydia’s sons, nor Parthia’s peopled shoreMede, or Egyptian, thus their king adore.He lives and moves through all th’ accordant soul—He dies, and by his death dissolves the whole;Rage and fierce war their wondrous fabric tear,Scatter their combs, and waste in wild despair.He guards their works, his looks deep rev’rence draws,Crowds swarm on crowds, and hum their loud applause,Bear 'mid the press of battle on their wing,And, proud to perish, die around their king.Hence to the bee some sages have assign’dA portion of the God, and heavenly mind;For God goes forth, and spreads throughout the whole—Heaven, earth, and sea, the universal soul;Each at its birth from him all beings share,Both man and brute, the breath of vital air.There all returns, and loos’d from earthly chain,Fly whence they sprung, and rest in God again,Spurn at the grave, and fearless of decay,Live 'mid the host of heaven, and star th’ ethereal way.* * * * *If wintry dearth thy prescient fears create,Or rouse thy pity for their ruin’d state;With thymy odors scent their smoking halls,And fill th’ unpeopled cells that load their walls.There oft, unseen, dark newts insidious prey,The beetle there, that flies the light of day—There feasts th’ unbidden drone—there ring the alarmsOf hornets battling with unequal arms;Dire gnaws the moth, and o’er their portals spreadThe spider watches her aërial thread.Yet still, when most oppress’d, they mostly strive,And tax their strength to renovate the hive;Contending myriads urge exhaustless powers,Fill every cell, and crowd the comb with flowers.Translation ofW. Sotheby.Publius Virgilius Maro, 70–19 B. C.

* * * * *

First, seek a station where no ruthless galeDares the still hive and sheltered bees assail:Lest as they homeward droop, o’erdone with toil,Inclement blasts their loaded flight despoil;Far from the sheep that wasted earth devour,The wanton bird that bounds from flower to flower;Heifers whose roving steps the meadow bruise,And dash from springing herbs nectareous dews.There let no lizard, armed with burnished scale,Merops, or bird of prey, their wall assail,Nor Progne haunt, whose conscious plumes attestThe blood-stained hand imprinted on her breast.These widely waste, and, seiz’d upon the wing,To feed their nest, the bee in triumph bring.But there let pools invite with moss array’d,Clear fount and rill that purls along the glade,Palms o’er their porch a grateful gloom extend,And the wild olive’s shelt’ring boughs defend.There where new kings the swarms at spring-tide lead,And bursting myriads gladden all the mead,Dim banks at noon may lure to cool repose,And trees with hospitable arms inclose.If sleep the stagnant pools, or currents flow,Huge stones and willows 'mid the water throw;That if a breeze across their passage sweep,And headlong drive the loiterer to the deep,On many a bridge the bee may safely stand,And his wet plumes to summer suns expand.There all her sweets let savory exhale,Thyme breathe her soul of fragrance on the galeIn dulcet streams her roots green casia lave,And beds of violets drink at will the wave.Alike, if hollow cork their fabric form,Or flexile twigs inclose the settled swarm;With narrow entrance guard the shelter’d cell,And summer suns and winter blasts repel.Dire each extreme; or winter cakes with cold,Or summer melts the comb to fluid gold.Hence not in vain the bees their domes prepare,And smear the chinks that open to the air;With flowers and fucus close each pervious poreWith wax cement, and thicken o’er and o’er.Stor’d for this use they hive the clammy dew,And load their garners with tenacious glue,As birdlime thick, or pitch that slow distilsIn loitering drops on Ida’s pine-crowned hillsAnd oft, ’tis said, they delve beneath the earth,And nurse in gloomy caves their hidden birth,Amid the crumbling stone’s dark concave dwell,Or hang in hollow trees their airy cell.Thou aid their toil! with mud their walls o’erlay,And lightly shade the roof with leafy spray.There let no yew its baleful shadow cast,Nor crabs on glowing embers taint the blast.Far from their roof deep fens that poison breathe,Thick fogs that float from bed of mud beneath,Caves from whose depth redoubled echoes rise,And rock on rock in circling shout replies.Now when the sun beneath the realms of nightDark winter drives, and robes the heavens with light.The bees o’er hill and dale, from flow’r to flow’r,In grove and lawn the purple spring devour,Sip on the wing, and, lightly bursting, laveTheir airy plumage in its undimpled wave.

First, seek a station where no ruthless gale

Dares the still hive and sheltered bees assail:

Lest as they homeward droop, o’erdone with toil,

Inclement blasts their loaded flight despoil;

Far from the sheep that wasted earth devour,

The wanton bird that bounds from flower to flower;

Heifers whose roving steps the meadow bruise,

And dash from springing herbs nectareous dews.

There let no lizard, armed with burnished scale,

Merops, or bird of prey, their wall assail,

Nor Progne haunt, whose conscious plumes attest

The blood-stained hand imprinted on her breast.

These widely waste, and, seiz’d upon the wing,

To feed their nest, the bee in triumph bring.

But there let pools invite with moss array’d,

Clear fount and rill that purls along the glade,

Palms o’er their porch a grateful gloom extend,

And the wild olive’s shelt’ring boughs defend.

There where new kings the swarms at spring-tide lead,

And bursting myriads gladden all the mead,

Dim banks at noon may lure to cool repose,

And trees with hospitable arms inclose.

If sleep the stagnant pools, or currents flow,

Huge stones and willows 'mid the water throw;

That if a breeze across their passage sweep,

And headlong drive the loiterer to the deep,

On many a bridge the bee may safely stand,

And his wet plumes to summer suns expand.

There all her sweets let savory exhale,

Thyme breathe her soul of fragrance on the gale

In dulcet streams her roots green casia lave,

And beds of violets drink at will the wave.

Alike, if hollow cork their fabric form,

Or flexile twigs inclose the settled swarm;

With narrow entrance guard the shelter’d cell,

And summer suns and winter blasts repel.

Dire each extreme; or winter cakes with cold,

Or summer melts the comb to fluid gold.

Hence not in vain the bees their domes prepare,

And smear the chinks that open to the air;

With flowers and fucus close each pervious pore

With wax cement, and thicken o’er and o’er.

Stor’d for this use they hive the clammy dew,

And load their garners with tenacious glue,

As birdlime thick, or pitch that slow distils

In loitering drops on Ida’s pine-crowned hills

And oft, ’tis said, they delve beneath the earth,

And nurse in gloomy caves their hidden birth,

Amid the crumbling stone’s dark concave dwell,

Or hang in hollow trees their airy cell.

Thou aid their toil! with mud their walls o’erlay,

And lightly shade the roof with leafy spray.

There let no yew its baleful shadow cast,

Nor crabs on glowing embers taint the blast.

Far from their roof deep fens that poison breathe,

Thick fogs that float from bed of mud beneath,

Caves from whose depth redoubled echoes rise,

And rock on rock in circling shout replies.

Now when the sun beneath the realms of night

Dark winter drives, and robes the heavens with light.

The bees o’er hill and dale, from flow’r to flow’r,

In grove and lawn the purple spring devour,

Sip on the wing, and, lightly bursting, lave

Their airy plumage in its undimpled wave.

* * * * *

Ah, fav’rite scenes! but now with gather’d sailI seek the shore, nor trust th’ inviting gale;Else had my song your charms at leisure trac’d,And all the garden’s varied arts embrac’d;Sung, twice each year, how Pæstan roses blow,How endive drinks the rill that purls below,How twisting gourds pursue their mazy way,Swell as they creep, and widen into day;How verdant celery decks its humid bed,How late-blown flow’rets round narcissus spread;The lithe acanthus, and the ivy hoar,And myrtle blooming on the sea-beat shore.Yes, I remember where Galæsus leadsHis flood dark-winding through the golden meads,Where proud Œbalia’s tow’rs o’erlook the plain,Once I beheld an old Corcyrian swain;Lord of a little spot, by all disdain’d,Where never lab’ring yoke subsistence gain’d,Where never shepherd gave his flock to feed,Nor Bacchus dar’d to trust th’ ungrateful mead,He there with scanty herbs the bushes crown’d,And planted lilies, vervains, poppies round;Nor envied kings, when late, at twilight close,Beneath his peaceful shed he sought repose,And cull’d from earth, with changeful plenty stor’d,Th’ unpurchas’d feasts that pil’d his varied board.At spring-tide first he pluck’d the full-blown rose,From autumn first the ripen’d apple chose;And e’en when winter split the rocks with cold,And chain’d the o’erhanging torrent as it roll’d,His blooming hyacinths, ne’er known to fail,Shed scents unborrow’d of the vernal gale,As 'mid their rifled beds he wound his way,Chid the slow sun, and zephyr’s long delay.Hence first his bees new swarms unnumber’d gave,And press’d from richest combs the golden wave;Limes round his haunts diffus’d a grateful shade,And verdant pines with many a cone array’d;And every bud that gemm’d the vernal spray,Swell’d into fruit beneath th’ autumnal ray.He lofty elms, transpos’d in order, plac’d,Luxuriant pears at will his alleys grac’d,And grafted thorns that blushing plumes display’d,And plains that stretch’d o’er summer feasts their shade.Ah! fav’rite scenes! to other bards resign’d,I leave your charms, and trace my task assign’d.

Ah, fav’rite scenes! but now with gather’d sail

I seek the shore, nor trust th’ inviting gale;

Else had my song your charms at leisure trac’d,

And all the garden’s varied arts embrac’d;

Sung, twice each year, how Pæstan roses blow,

How endive drinks the rill that purls below,

How twisting gourds pursue their mazy way,

Swell as they creep, and widen into day;

How verdant celery decks its humid bed,

How late-blown flow’rets round narcissus spread;

The lithe acanthus, and the ivy hoar,

And myrtle blooming on the sea-beat shore.

Yes, I remember where Galæsus leads

His flood dark-winding through the golden meads,

Where proud Œbalia’s tow’rs o’erlook the plain,

Once I beheld an old Corcyrian swain;

Lord of a little spot, by all disdain’d,

Where never lab’ring yoke subsistence gain’d,

Where never shepherd gave his flock to feed,

Nor Bacchus dar’d to trust th’ ungrateful mead,

He there with scanty herbs the bushes crown’d,

And planted lilies, vervains, poppies round;

Nor envied kings, when late, at twilight close,

Beneath his peaceful shed he sought repose,

And cull’d from earth, with changeful plenty stor’d,

Th’ unpurchas’d feasts that pil’d his varied board.

At spring-tide first he pluck’d the full-blown rose,

From autumn first the ripen’d apple chose;

And e’en when winter split the rocks with cold,

And chain’d the o’erhanging torrent as it roll’d,

His blooming hyacinths, ne’er known to fail,

Shed scents unborrow’d of the vernal gale,

As 'mid their rifled beds he wound his way,

Chid the slow sun, and zephyr’s long delay.

Hence first his bees new swarms unnumber’d gave,

And press’d from richest combs the golden wave;

Limes round his haunts diffus’d a grateful shade,

And verdant pines with many a cone array’d;

And every bud that gemm’d the vernal spray,

Swell’d into fruit beneath th’ autumnal ray.

He lofty elms, transpos’d in order, plac’d,

Luxuriant pears at will his alleys grac’d,

And grafted thorns that blushing plumes display’d,

And plains that stretch’d o’er summer feasts their shade.

Ah! fav’rite scenes! to other bards resign’d,

I leave your charms, and trace my task assign’d.

* * * * *

To each his part; age claims th’ entrusted careTo rear the palace, and the dome repair;The young, returning home at dead of night,Faint, droop beneath the thyme that loads their flight.Where’er a willow waves, or arbute grows,Or casia scents the gale, or crocus glows,Or hyacinth unfolds its purple hue,Flow’r, shrub, and grove, for them their sweets renew.Alike they labor, and alike repose;Forth from their gates each morn the nation flows;And when pale twilight, from the wasted mead,Bids the tir’d race, o’ercharg’d with spoil, recede,They seek their roof, their drooping frame revive,And shake with ceaseless hum the crowded hive.Deep calm succeeds, each laid within his cell,Where sleep and peace without a murmur dwell.If tempests low’r, or blustering Eurus sound,Prescient they creep their city walls around,Sip the pure rill that near their portal springs,And bound their wary flight in narrower rings,And with light pebbles, like a balanc’d boat,Pois’d through the air on even pinions float.

To each his part; age claims th’ entrusted care

To rear the palace, and the dome repair;

The young, returning home at dead of night,

Faint, droop beneath the thyme that loads their flight.

Where’er a willow waves, or arbute grows,

Or casia scents the gale, or crocus glows,

Or hyacinth unfolds its purple hue,

Flow’r, shrub, and grove, for them their sweets renew.

Alike they labor, and alike repose;

Forth from their gates each morn the nation flows;

And when pale twilight, from the wasted mead,

Bids the tir’d race, o’ercharg’d with spoil, recede,

They seek their roof, their drooping frame revive,

And shake with ceaseless hum the crowded hive.

Deep calm succeeds, each laid within his cell,

Where sleep and peace without a murmur dwell.

If tempests low’r, or blustering Eurus sound,

Prescient they creep their city walls around,

Sip the pure rill that near their portal springs,

And bound their wary flight in narrower rings,

And with light pebbles, like a balanc’d boat,

Pois’d through the air on even pinions float.

* * * * *

Not Lydia’s sons, nor Parthia’s peopled shoreMede, or Egyptian, thus their king adore.He lives and moves through all th’ accordant soul—He dies, and by his death dissolves the whole;Rage and fierce war their wondrous fabric tear,Scatter their combs, and waste in wild despair.He guards their works, his looks deep rev’rence draws,Crowds swarm on crowds, and hum their loud applause,Bear 'mid the press of battle on their wing,And, proud to perish, die around their king.Hence to the bee some sages have assign’dA portion of the God, and heavenly mind;For God goes forth, and spreads throughout the whole—Heaven, earth, and sea, the universal soul;Each at its birth from him all beings share,Both man and brute, the breath of vital air.There all returns, and loos’d from earthly chain,Fly whence they sprung, and rest in God again,Spurn at the grave, and fearless of decay,Live 'mid the host of heaven, and star th’ ethereal way.

Not Lydia’s sons, nor Parthia’s peopled shore

Mede, or Egyptian, thus their king adore.

He lives and moves through all th’ accordant soul—

He dies, and by his death dissolves the whole;

Rage and fierce war their wondrous fabric tear,

Scatter their combs, and waste in wild despair.

He guards their works, his looks deep rev’rence draws,

Crowds swarm on crowds, and hum their loud applause,

Bear 'mid the press of battle on their wing,

And, proud to perish, die around their king.

Hence to the bee some sages have assign’d

A portion of the God, and heavenly mind;

For God goes forth, and spreads throughout the whole—

Heaven, earth, and sea, the universal soul;

Each at its birth from him all beings share,

Both man and brute, the breath of vital air.

There all returns, and loos’d from earthly chain,

Fly whence they sprung, and rest in God again,

Spurn at the grave, and fearless of decay,

Live 'mid the host of heaven, and star th’ ethereal way.

* * * * *

If wintry dearth thy prescient fears create,Or rouse thy pity for their ruin’d state;With thymy odors scent their smoking halls,And fill th’ unpeopled cells that load their walls.There oft, unseen, dark newts insidious prey,The beetle there, that flies the light of day—There feasts th’ unbidden drone—there ring the alarmsOf hornets battling with unequal arms;Dire gnaws the moth, and o’er their portals spreadThe spider watches her aërial thread.Yet still, when most oppress’d, they mostly strive,And tax their strength to renovate the hive;Contending myriads urge exhaustless powers,Fill every cell, and crowd the comb with flowers.Translation ofW. Sotheby.Publius Virgilius Maro, 70–19 B. C.

If wintry dearth thy prescient fears create,

Or rouse thy pity for their ruin’d state;

With thymy odors scent their smoking halls,

And fill th’ unpeopled cells that load their walls.

There oft, unseen, dark newts insidious prey,

The beetle there, that flies the light of day—

There feasts th’ unbidden drone—there ring the alarms

Of hornets battling with unequal arms;

Dire gnaws the moth, and o’er their portals spread

The spider watches her aërial thread.

Yet still, when most oppress’d, they mostly strive,

And tax their strength to renovate the hive;

Contending myriads urge exhaustless powers,

Fill every cell, and crowd the comb with flowers.

Translation ofW. Sotheby.Publius Virgilius Maro, 70–19 B. C.

So work the honey-bees;Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teachThe art of order to a peopled kingdom.They have a king, and officers of sorts;Where some, like magistrates, correct at home:Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad:Others, like soldiers, armed in their sting,Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds,Which pillage they with merry march bring homeTo the tent royal of their emperor—Who, busied in his majesty, surveysThe singing masons building roofs of gold;The civil citizens kneading up the honey;The poor mechanic porters crowding inTheir heavy burdens at his narrow gate;The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,Delivering o’er to executors paleThe lazy, yawning drone.Henry V., Act I., S. 2.

So work the honey-bees;

Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach

The art of order to a peopled kingdom.

They have a king, and officers of sorts;

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home:

Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad:

Others, like soldiers, armed in their sting,

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds,

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent royal of their emperor—

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold;

The civil citizens kneading up the honey;

The poor mechanic porters crowding in

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate;

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,

Delivering o’er to executors pale

The lazy, yawning drone.

Henry V., Act I., S. 2.

FROM “THE FEMININE MONARCHY, OR THE HISTORY OF BEES.”

The drone is a gross, stingless bee, that spendeth his time in gluttony and idleness; for howsoever he brave it with his round, velvet cap, his side gown, his full paunch, and his loud voice, yet is he but an idle companion, living by the sweat of others’ brows. He worketh not at all, either at home or abroad, and yet spendeth as much as two laborers; you shall never find his man without a good drop of the purest nectar. In the heat of the day he flieth abroad, aloft, and about, and that withno small noise, as though he would do some great act; but it is only for his pleasure, and to get him a stomach, and then returns he pleasantly to his cheer.

Charles Butler, 1634.

Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn,Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn,O’er thymy downs she bends her busy course,And many a stream allures her to its source.’Tis noon, ’tis night. That eye so finely wrought,Beyond the reach of sense, the soar of thought,Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind,Its orb so full, its vision so confined!Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?With conscious truth retrace the mazy clueOf varied scents, that charm’d her as she flew?Hail, memory, hail! thy universal reignGuards the least link of being’s glorious chain.Samuel Rogers.

Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn,

Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn,

O’er thymy downs she bends her busy course,

And many a stream allures her to its source.

’Tis noon, ’tis night. That eye so finely wrought,

Beyond the reach of sense, the soar of thought,

Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind,

Its orb so full, its vision so confined!

Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?

Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?

With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue

Of varied scents, that charm’d her as she flew?

Hail, memory, hail! thy universal reign

Guards the least link of being’s glorious chain.

Samuel Rogers.

FROM “SALMONIA.”

Phys.* * * Let me now call your attention to that Michaelmas daisy. A few minutes ago, before the sun sunk behind the hill, its flowers were covered with varieties of bees, and some wasps, all busy in feeding on its sweets. I never saw a more animated scene of insect enjoyment. The bees were most of them humble-bees, but many of them new varieties to me, and the wasps appeared different from any I have seen before.

Hal.I believe this is one of the last autumnal flowers that insects of this kind haunt. In sunny days it is their constant point of resort, and it would afford a good opportunity to the entomologist to make a collection of British bees.

Poict.I neither hear the hum of the bee, nor can I see any on its flowers. They are now deserted.

Phys.Since the sun has disappeared, the cool of the evening has, I suppose, driven the little winged plunderers to their homes; but see! there are two or three humble-bees which seem languid with the cold, and yet they have their tongues still in the fountain of honey. I believe one of them is actually dead, yet his mouth is still attached to the flower. He has fallen asleep, and probably died while making his last meal of ambrosia.

Sir Humphrey Davy.

SONNET.

The honey-bee, that wanders all day long,The field, the woodland, and the garden o’er,To gather in his fragrant winter store,Humming in calm content his quiet song,Seeks not alone the rose’s glowing breast,The lily’s dainty cup, the violet’s lips—But from all rank and noxious weeds he sipsThe single drop of sweetness closely press’dWithin the poison chalice. Thus, if weSeek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,In all the varied human flowers we meet,In the wide garden of humanity;And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.Anne C. Lynch.

The honey-bee, that wanders all day long,

The field, the woodland, and the garden o’er,

To gather in his fragrant winter store,

Humming in calm content his quiet song,

Seeks not alone the rose’s glowing breast,

The lily’s dainty cup, the violet’s lips—

But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips

The single drop of sweetness closely press’d

Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,

In all the varied human flowers we meet,

In the wide garden of humanity;

And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,

Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.

Anne C. Lynch.

[Pastoral Scene]

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