But, straitened in my space, I must forsake This task, for others afterwards to take. Describe we next the nature of the bees, Bestowed by Jove for secret services, When, by the tinkling sound of timbrels led, The king of heaven in Cretan caves they fed. Of all the race of animals, alone The bees have common cities of their own, And common sons; beneath one law they live, And with one common stock their traffic drive. Each has a certain home, a several stall; All is the state's, the state provides for all. Mindful of coming cold, they share the pain, And hoard, for winter's use, the summer's gain. Some o'er the public magazines preside, And some are sent new forage to provide; These drudge in fields abroad, and those at home } Lay deep foundations for the laboured comb, } With dew, narcissus-leaves, and clammy gum. } To pitch the waxen flooring some contrive; Some nurse the future nation of the hive; Sweet honey some condense; some purge the grout; The rest, in cells apart, the liquid nectar shut: All, with united force, combine to drive The lazy drones from the laborious hive: With envy stung, they view each other's deeds; With diligence the fragrant work proceeds. As, when the Cyclops, at the almighty nod, New thunder hasten for their angry god, Subdued in fire the stubborn metal lies; One brawny smith the puffing bellows plies, And draws and blows reciprocating air: Others to quench the hissing mass prepare; With lifted arms they order every blow, } And chime their sounding hammers in a row; } With laboured anvils Ætna groans below. } Strongly they strike; huge flakes of flames expire; With tongs they turn the steel, and vex it in the fire. If little things with great we may compare, Such are the bees, and such their busy care; Studious of honey, each in his degree, The youthful swain, the grave experienced bee-- That in the field; this, in affairs of state Employed at home, abides within the gate, To fortify the combs, to build the wall, To prop the ruins, lest the fabric fall: But, late at night, with weary pinions come The labouring youth, and heavy laden, home. Plains, meads, and orchards, all the day he plies; The gleans of yellow thyme distend his thighs: He spoils the saffron flowers; he sips the blues Of violets, wilding blooms, and willow dews. Their toil is common, common is their sleep; They shake their wings when morn begins to peep, Rush through the city-gates without delay, Nor ends their work, but with declining day. Then, having spent the last remains of light, They give their bodies due repose at night, When hollow murmurs of their evening bells Dismiss the sleepy swains, and toll them to their cells. When once in beds their weary limbs they steep, No buzzing sounds disturb their golden sleep: