3. Vergil, Georgics, 4 (1st cent. BCE - 1st cent. BCE) Tagged with subjects: •inscriptions, epitaphic Found in books: Keith and Myers, Vergil and Elegy (2023) 313 | 4. of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I now,Take up the tale. Upon this theme no less,Look 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 back,The foragers with food returning home),Nor sheep and butting kids tread down the flowers,,Nor heifer wandering wide upon the plain,Dash off the dew, and bruise the springing blades.,Let the gay lizard too keep far aloof,His scale-clad body from their honied stalls,,And the bee-eater, and what birds beside,,And Procne smirched with blood upon the breast,From her own murderous hands. For these roam wide,Wasting all substance, or the bees themselves,Strike flying, and in their beaks bear home, to glut,Those 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 chiefs,Lead 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 find,And 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 breath,Bloom round about, and violet-beds hard by,Sip sweetness from the fertilizing springs.,For the hive's self, or stitched of hollow bark,,Or from tough osier woven, let the doors,Be strait of entrance; for stiff winter's cold,Congeals the honey, and heat resolves and thaws,,To bees alike disastrous; not for naught,So haste they to cement the tiny pores,That pierce their walls, and fill the crevices,With pollen from the flowers, and glean and keep,To this same end the glue, that binds more fast,Than 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 cribs,With warm smooth mud-coat, and strew leaves above;,But near their home let neither yew-tree grow,,Nor reddening crabs be roasted, and mistrust,Deep 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 put,Winter 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 is,With some sweet rapture, that we know not of,,Their little ones they foster, hence with skill,Work out new wax or clinging honey mould.,So when the cage-escaped hosts you see,Float heavenward through the hot clear air, until,You marvel at yon dusky cloud that spreads,And lengthens on the wind, then mark them well;,For then 'tis ever the fresh springs they seek,And bowery shelter: hither must you bring,The savoury sweets I bid, and sprinkle them,,Bruised balsam and the wax-flower's lowly weed,,And wake and shake the tinkling cymbals heard,By the great Mother: on the anointed spots,Themselves will settle, and in wonted wise,Seek of themselves the cradle's inmost depth.,But if to battle they have hied them forth—,For oft 'twixt king and king with uproar dire,Fierce feud arises, and at once from far,You may discern what passion sways the mob,,And how their hearts are throbbing for the strife;,Hark! the hoarse brazen note that warriors know,Chides on the loiterers, and the ear may catch,A 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 rolled,Into one mighty mass, and headlong fall,,Not denselier hail through heaven, nor pelting so,Rains from the shaken oak its acorn-shower.,Conspicuous by their wings the chiefs themselves,Press through the heart of battle, and display,A giant's spirit in each pigmy frame,,Steadfast no inch to yield till these or those,The victor's ponderous arm has turned to flight.,Such fiery passions and such fierce assaults,A 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 let,His 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 wayfarer,Scapes from a whirl of dust, and scorched with heat,Spits 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 gold,Symmetric: this the likelier breed; from these,,When heaven brings round the season, thou shalt strain,Sweet 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 play,Must you refrain their volatile desires,,Nor hard the task: tear off the monarchs' wings;,While these prove loiterers, none beside will dare,Mount heaven, or pluck the standards from the camp.,Let gardens with the breath of saffron flowers,Allure them, and the lord of |
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