Again, when their affrighted choir surveys The watery Scorpion mend his pace behind, } With a black train of storms, and winter wind, } They plunge into the deep, and safe protection find. } Prone to revenge, the bees, a wrathful race, When once provoked, assault the aggressor's face, And through the purple veins a passage find; There fix their stings, and leave their souls behind. But, if a pinching winter thou foresee, And would'st preserve thy famished family; With fragrant thyme the city fumigate, And break the waxen walls to save the state. For lurking lizards often lodge, by stealth, Within the suburbs, and purloin their wealth; And worms, that shun the light,[21] a dark retreat Have found in combs, and undermined the seat; Or lazy drones, without their share of pain, In winter-quarters free, devour the gain; Or wasps infest the camp with loud alarms, And mix in battle with unequal arms; Or secret moths are there in silence fed; Or spiders in the vault their snary webs have spread. The more oppressed by foes, or famine-pined, The more increase thy care to save the sinking kind: With greens and flowers recruit their empty hives, And seek fresh forage to sustain their lives. But, since they share with man one common fate, In health and sickness, and in turns of state,-- Observe the symptoms. When they fall away, And languish with insensible decay, They change their hue; with haggard eyes they stare; Lean are their looks, and shagged is their hair: And crowds of dead, that never must return } To their loved hives, in decent pomp are borne: } Their friends attend the hearse; the next relations mourn. } The sick, for air, before the portal gasp, Their feeble legs within each other clasp, Or idle in their empty hives remain, Benumbed with cold, and listless of their gain. Soft whispers then, and broken sounds, are heard, As when the woods by gentle winds are stirred; Such stifled noise as the close furnace hides, Or dying murmurs of departing tides. This when thou seest, galbanean odours use, And honey in the sickly hive infuse. Through reeden pipes convey the golden flood, To invite the people to their wonted food. Mix it with thickened juice of sodden wines, And raisins from the grapes of Psythian vines: To these add pounded galls, and roses dry, And, with Cecropian thyme, strong-scented centaury. A flower there is, that grows in meadow-ground, Amellus called, and easy to be found; For, from one root, the rising stem bestows A wood of leaves, and violet-purple boughs: The flower itself is glorious to behold, And shines on altars like refulgent gold-- Sharp to the taste--by shepherds near the stream Of Mella found; and thence they gave the name. Boil this restoring root in generous wine, And set beside the door, the sickly stock to dine.