The rocks with frost, and with her icy bit Curb in the running waters, there was he Plucking the rathe faint hyacinth, while he chid Summer's slow footsteps and the lagging West. Therefore he too with earliest brooding bees And their full swarms o'erflowed, and first was he To press the bubbling honey from the comb; Lime-trees were his, and many a branching pine; And all the fruits wherewith in early bloom The orchard-tree had clothed her, in full tale Hung there, by mellowing autumn perfected. He too transplanted tall-grown elms a-row, Time-toughened pear, thorns bursting with the plum And plane now yielding serviceable shade For 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 powers Great Jove himself upon the bees bestowed, The boon for which, led by the shrill sweet strains Of the Curetes and their clashing brass, They fed the King of heaven in Dicte's cave. Alone of all things they receive and hold Community of offspring, and they house Together in one city, and beneath The 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 store Hoard up their gathered harvesting. For some Watch o'er the victualling of the hive, and these By settled order ply their tasks afield; And some within the confines of their home Plant 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 pack The thrice repured honey, and stretch their cells To 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 drive The drones, a lazy herd. How glows the work! How sweet the honey smells of perfumed thyme Like the Cyclopes, when in haste they forge From the slow-yielding ore the thunderbolts, Some from the bull's-hide bellows in and out Let the blasts drive, some dip i' the water-trough The sputtering metal: with the anvil's weight Groans Etna: they alternately in time With 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 breasts Goads on the bees, that haunt old Cecrops' heights, Each in his sphere to labour. The old have charge To keep the town, and build the walled combs, And mould the cunning chambers; but the youth, Their tired legs packed with thyme, come labouring home Belated, for afar they range to feed On 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: