HKB
But if you dread Too rigorous a winter, and would fain Temper the coming time, and their bruised hearts And broken estate to pity move thy soul, Yet who would fear to fumigate with thyme, Or cut the empty wax away? for oft Into their comb the newt has gnawed unseen, And the light-loathing beetles crammed their bed, And he that sits at others' board to feast, The do-naught drone; or 'gainst the unequal foe Swoops the fierce hornet, or the moth's fell tribe; Or spider, victim of Minerva's spite, Athwart the doorway hangs her swaying net. The more impoverished they, the keenlier all To mend the fallen fortunes of their race Will nerve them, fill the cells up, tier on tier, And weave their granaries from the rifled flowers. Now, seeing that life doth even to bee-folk bring Our human chances, if in dire disease Their bodies' strength should languish- which anon By no uncertain tokens may be told- Forthwith the sick change hue; grim leanness mars Their visage; then from out the cells they bear Forms reft of light, and lead the mournful pomp; Or foot to foot about the porch they hang, Or within closed doors loiter, listless all From famine, and benumbed with shrivelling cold. Then is a deep note heard, a long-drawn hum, As when the chill South through the forests sighs, As when the troubled ocean hoarsely booms With back-swung billow, as ravening tide of fire Surges, shut fast within the furnace-walls. Then do I bid burn scented galbanum, And, honey-streams through reeden troughs instilled, Challenge and cheer their flagging appetite To taste the well-known food; and it shall boot To mix therewith the savour bruised from gall, And rose-leaves dried, or must to thickness boiled By a fierce fire, or juice of raisin-grapes From Psithian vine, and with its bitter smell Centaury, and the famed Cecropian thyme. There is a meadow-flower by country folk Hight star-wort; 'tis a plant not far to seek; For from one sod an ample growth it rears, Itself all golden, but girt with plenteous leaves, Where glory of purple shines through violet gloom. With chaplets woven hereof full oft are decked Heaven's altars: harsh its taste upon the tongue; Shepherds in vales smooth-shorn of nibbling flocks By Mella's winding waters gather it. The roots of this, well seethed in fragrant wine, Set in brimmed baskets at their doors for food. But if one's whole stock fail him at a stroke, Nor hath he whence to breed the race anew, 'Tis time the wondrous secret to disclose Taught by the swain of Arcady, even how The blood of slaughtered bullocks oft has borne Bees from corruption. I will trace me back To its prime source the story's tangled thread, And thence unravel. For where thy happy folk, Canopus, city of Pellaean fame, Dwell by the Nile's lagoon-like overflow, And high o'er furrows they have called their own Skim in their painted wherries;