Classic Poem

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

The gifts of heav'n my foll'wing song pursues,
Airial honey, and ambrosial dews.
Maecenas, read this other part, that sings
Embattled squadrons, and advent'rous kings:
A mighty pomp, tho' made of little things,
Their arms, their arts, their manners, I disclose,
And how they war, and whence the people rose:
Slight is the subject, but the praise not small,
If Heav'n assist, and Phaebus hear my call.
First, for thy bees a quiet station find,
And lodge 'em under covert of the wind,
(For winds, when homeward they return, will drive
The loaded carriers from their ev'ning hive,)
Far from the cows' and goats' insulting crew,
That trample down the flow'rs, and brush the dew.
The painted lizard, and the birds of prey,
Foes of the frugal kind, be far away;
The titmouse, and the peckers' hungry brood,
And Progne, with her bosom stain'd in blood:
These rob the trading citizens, and bear
The trembling captives thro' the liquid air,
And for their callow young a cruel feast prepare.
But near a living stream their mansion place,
Edg'd round with moss and tufts of matted grass;
And plant (the winds' impetuous rage to stop)
Wild olive trees, or palms, before the busy shop;
That, when the youthful prince, with proud alarm,
Calls out the vent'rous colony to swarm;
When first their way thro' yielding air they wing,
New to the pleasures of their native spring;
The banks of brooks may make a cool retreat
For the raw soldiers from the scalding heat,
And neighb'ring trees with friendly shade invite
The troops, unus'd to long laborious flight.
Then o'er the running stream, or standing lake,
A passage for thy weary people make;
With osier floats the standing water strow;
Of massy stones make bridges, if it flow;
That basking in the sun thy bees may lie,
And, resting there, their flaggy pinions dry,
When, late returning home, the laden host
By raging winds is wreck'd upon the coast.
Wild thyme and sav'ry set around their cell,
Sweet to the taste, and fragrant to the smell;
Set rows of rosemary with flow'ring stem,
And let the purple vi'lets drink the stream.
Whether thou build the palace of thy bees
With twisted osiers, or with barks of trees
Make but a narrow mouth; for, as the cold
Congeals into a lump the liquid gold,
So 't is again dissolv'd by summer's heat,
And the sweet labors both extremes defeat.
And therefore, not in vain, th' industrious kind
With dauby wax and flow'rs the chinks have lin'd,
And, with their stores of gather'd glue, contrive
To stop the vents and crannies of their hive.
Not birdlime, or Idaean pitch, produce
A more tenacious mass of clammy juice.
Nor bees are lodg'd in hives alone, but found
In chambers of their own, beneath the ground;
Their vaulted roofs are hung in pumices,
And in the rotten trunks of hollow trees.
But plaister thou the chinky hives with clay,
And leafy branches o'er their lodgings lay:
Nor place them where too deep a water flows,
Or where the yew, their pois'nous neighbor, grows;
Nor roast red crabs, t' offend the niceness of their nose;
Nor near the steaming stench of muddy ground;
Nor hollow rocks that render back the sound,
And doubled images of voice rebound.
For what remains, when golden suns appear,
And under earth have driv'n the winter year,
The winged nation wanders thro' the skies,
And o'er the plains and shady forest flies;
Then, stooping on the meads and leafy bow'rs,
They skim the floods, and sip the purple flow'rs.
Exalted hence, and drunk with secret joy,
Their young succession all their cares employ:
They breed, they brood, instruct, and educate,
And make provision for the future state;
They work their waxen lodgings in their hives,
And labor honey to sustain their lives.
But when thou seest a swarming cloud arise,
That sweeps aloft, and darkens all the skies,
The motions of their hasty flight attend;
And know, to floods or woods their airy march they bend.
Then melfoil beat, and honeysuckles pound;
With these alluring savors strew the ground,
And mix with tinkling brass the cymbals' droning sound.
Straight to their ancient cells, recall'd from air,
The reconcil'd deserters will repair.
But if intestine broils alarm the hive,
(For two pretenders oft for empire strive,)
The vulgar in divided factions jar;
And murm'ring sounds proclaim the civil war.
Inflam'd with ire, and trembling with disdain,
Scarce can their limbs their mighty souls contain.
With shouts the cowards' courage they excite,
And martial clangors call 'em out to fight;
With hoarse alarms the hollow camp rebounds,
That imitates the trumpets' angry sounds;
Then to their common standard they repair;
The nimble horsemen scour the fields of air;
In form of battle drawn, they issue forth,
And ev'ry knight is proud to prove his worth.
Press'd for their country's honor, and their king's,
On their sharp beaks they whet their pointed stings,
And exercise their arms, and tremble with their wings.
Full in the midst the haughty monarchs ride;
The trusty guards come up, and close the side;
With shouts the daring foe to battle is defied.
Thus, in the season of unclouded spring,
To war they follow their undaunted king,
Crowd thro' their gates, and in the fields of light
The shocking squadrons meet in mortal fight.
Headlong they fall from high, and, wounded, wound,
And heaps of slaughter'd soldiers bite the ground.
Hard hailstones lie not thicker on the plain,
Nor shaken oaks such show'rs of acorns rain.
With gorgeous wings, the marks of sov'reign sway,
The two contending princes make their way;
Intrepid thro' the midst of danger go,
Their friends encourage, and amaze the foe.
With mighty souls in narrow bodies press'd,
They challenge, and encounter breast to breast;
So fix'd on fame, unknowing how to fly,
And obstinately bent to win or die,
That long the doubtful combat they maintain,
Till one prevails — for one can only reign.
Yet all those dreadful deeds, this deadly fray,
A cast of scatter'd dust will soon allay,
And undecided leave the fortune of the day.
When both the chiefs are sunder'd from the fight,
Then to the lawful king restore his right;
And let the wasteful prodigal be slain,
ThaThe who best deserves alone may reign.
With ease distinguish'd is the regal race:
One monarch wears an honest open face;
Shap'd to his size, and godlike to behold,
His royal body shines with specks of gold,
And ruddy scales; for empire he design'd,
Is better born, and of a nobler kind.
That other looks like nature in disgrace:
Gaunt are his sides, and sullen is his face;
And like their grisly prince appears his gloomy race,
Grim, ghastly, rugged, like a thirsty train
That long have travel'd thro' a desart plain,
And spet from their dry chaps the gather'd dust again.
The better brood, unlike the bastard crew,
Are mark'd with royal streaks of shining hue;
Glitt'ring and ardent, tho' in body less:
From these, at pointed seasons, hope to press
Huge heavy honeycombs, of golden juice,
Not only sweet, but pure, and fit for use,
T' allay the strength and hardness of the wine,
And with old Bacchus new metheglin join.
But when the swarms are eager of their play,
And loathe their empty hives, and idly stray,
Restrain the wanton fugitives, and take
A timely care to bring the truants back.
The task is easy — but to clip the wings
Of their high-flying arbitrary kings.
At their command, the people swarm away:
Confine the tyrant, and the slaves will stay.
Sweet gardens, full of saffron flow'rs, invite
The wand'ring gluttons, and retard their flight:
Besides, the god obscene, who frights away,
With his lath sword, the thiefs and birds of prey.
With his own hand, the guardian of the bees
For slips of pines may search the mountain trees,
And with wild thyme and sav'ry plant the plain,
Till his hard horny fingers ache with pain;
And deck with fruitful trees the fields around,
And with refreshing waters drench the ground.
Now, did I not so near my labors end,
Strike sail, and hast'ning to the harbor tend,
My song to flow'ry gardens might extend:
To teach the vegetable arts, to sing
The Paestan roses, and their double spring;
How succ'ry drinks the running streams, and how
Green beds of parsley near the river grow;
How cucumers along the surface creep
With crooked bodies, and with bellies deep;
The late narcissus, and the winding trail
Of bear's-foot, myrtles green, and ivy pale.
For, where with stately tow'rs Tarentum stands,
And deep Galaesus soaks the yellow sands,
I chanc'd an old Corycian swain to know,
Lord of few acres, and those barren too,
Unfit for sheep or vines, and more unfit to sow:
Yet, lab'ring well his little spot of ground,
Some scatt'ring pot-herbs here and there he found,
Which, cultivated with his daily care.
And bruis'd with vervain, were his frugal fare.
Sometimes white lilies did their leaves afford,
With wholesome poppy flow'rs, to mend his homely board;
For, late returning home, he supp'd at ease.
And wisely deem'd the wealth of monarchs less:
The little of his own, because his own, did please.
To quit his care, he gather'd, first of all,
In spring the roses, apples in the fall;
And, when cold winter split the rocks in twain,
And ice the running rivers did restrain,
He stripp'd the bear's-foot of its leafy growth,
And, calling western winds, accus'd the spring of sloth.
He therefore first among the swains was found
To reap the product of his labor'd ground,
And squeeze the combs with golden liquor crown'd.
His limes were first in flow'rs; his lofty pines,
With friendly shade, secur'd his tender vines.
For ev'ry bloom his trees in spring afford,
An autumn apple was by tale restor'd.
He knew to rank his elms in even rows,
For fruit the grafted pear tree to dispose,
And tame to plums the sourness of the sloes.
With spreading planes he made a cool retreat,
To shade good fellows from the summer's heat.
But, straiten'd in my space, I must forsake
This task, for others afterwards to take.
Describe we next the nature of the bees,
Bestow'd by Jove for secret services,
When, by the tinkling sound of timbrels led,
The King of Heav'n 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 sev'ral 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 labor'd 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 th' 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 ev'ry blow,
And chime their sounding hammers in a row;
With labor'd 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 experienc'd bee:
That in the field; this, in affairs of state
Employ'd 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 lab'ring 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 flow'rs; he sips the blues
Of vi'lets, wilding blooms, and willow dews.
Their toil is common, common is their sleep;
They shake their wings when morn begins to peep,
Rush thro' 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 ev'ning bells
Dismiss the sleepy swains, and toll 'em to their cells.
When once in beds their weary limbs they steep,
No buzzing sounds disturb their golden sleep.
'T is sacred silence all. Nor dare they stray,
When rain is promis'd, or a stormy day;
But near the city walls their wat'ring take,
Nor forage far, but short excursions make.
And as, when empty barks on billows float,
With sandy ballast sailors trim the boat;
So bees bear gravel stones, whose poising weight
Steers thro' the whistling winds their steady flight.
But, what 's more strange, their modest appetites,
Averse from Venus, fly the nuptial rites.
No lust enervates their heroic mind,
Nor wastes their strength on wanton womankind;
But in their mouths reside their genial pow'rs:
They gather children from the leaves and flow'rs.
Thus make they kings to fill the regal seat,
And thus their little citizens create,
And waxen cities build and palaces of state.
And oft on rocks their tender wings they tear,
And sink beneath the burthens which they bear:
Such rage of honey in their bosom beats,
And such a zeal they have for flow'ry sweets.
Thus tho' the race of life they quickly run,
Which in the space of sev'n short years is done,
Th' immortal line in sure succession reigns;
The fortune of the family remains,
And grandsires' grandsons the long list contains.
Besides, not Egypt, India, Media, more,
With servile awe their idol king adore:
While he survives, in concord and content
The commons live, by no divisions rent;
But the great monarch's death dissolves the government.
All goes to ruin; they themselves contrive
To rob the honey, and subvert the hive.
The king presides, his subjects' toil surveys;
The servile rout their careful Caesar praise:
Him they extol; they worship him alone;
They crowd his levees, and support his throne;
They raise him on their shoulders with a shout;
And, when their sov'reign's quarrel calls 'em out,
His foes to mortal combat they defy,
And think it honor at his feet to die.
Induc'd by such examples, some have taught
That bees have portions of ethereal thought;
Endued with particles of heavenly fires:
For God the whole created mass inspires;
Thro' heav'n, and earth, and ocean's depth he throws
His influence round, and kindles as he goes.
Hence flocks, and herds, and men, and beasts, and fowls
With breath are quicken'd and attract their souls;
Hence take the forms his prescience did ordain,
And into him at length resolve again.
No room is left for death: they mount the sky,
And to their own congenial planets fly.
Now, when thou hast decreed to seize their stores,
And by prerogative to break their doors,
With sprinkled water first the city choke,
And then pursue the citizens with smoke.
Two honey harvests fall in ev'ry year:
First, when the pleasing Pleiades appear,
And, springing upward, spurn the briny seas;
Again, when their affrighted choir surveys
The wat'ry 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 provok'd, assault th' aggressor's face,
And thro' the purple veins a passage find;
There fix their stings, and leave their souls behind.
But if a pinching winter thou foresee,
And wouldst preserve thy famish'd 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, a dark retreat
Have found in combs, and undermin'd 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 oppress'd by foes, or famine-pin'd,
The more increase thy care to save the sinking kind:
With greens and flow'rs 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 lov'd 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,
Benumb'd with cold, and listless of their gain.
Soft whispers then, and broken sounds are heard,
As when the woods by gentle winds are stirr'd;
Such stifled noise as the close furnace hides,
Or dying murmurs of departing tides.
This when thou seest, galbanean odors use,
And honey in the sickly hive infuse.
Thro' reeden pipes convey the golden flood,
T' invite the people to their wonted flood.
Mix it with thicken'd 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 flow'r there is, that grows in meadow ground,
Amellus call'd, and easy to be found;
For, from one root, the rising stem bestows
A wood of leaves, and vi'let-purple boughs:
The flow'r 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 gen'rous wine,
And set beside the door, the sickly stock to dine.
But, if the lab'ring kind be wholly lost,
And not to be retriev'd with care or cost;
'T is time to touch the precepts of an art
Th' Arcadian master did of old impart;
And how he stock'd his empty hives again,
Renew'd with putrid gore of oxen slain.
An ancient legend I prepare to sing,
And upward follow Fame's immortal spring: —
For, where with sev'nfold horns mysterious Nile
Surrounds the skirts of Egypt's fruitful isle,
And where in pomp the sunburnt people ride
On painted barges o'er the teeming tide,
Which, pouring down from Ethiopian lands,
Makes green the soil with slime, and black prolific sands;
That length of region, and large tract of ground,
In this one art a sure relief have found.
First, in a place by nature close, they build
A narrow flooring, gutter'd, wall'd, and til'd.
In this, four windows are contriv'd, that strike
To the four winds oppos'd their beams oblique.
A steer of two years old they take, whose head
Now first with burnish'd horns begins to spread;
They stop his nostrils, while he strives in vain
To breathe free air, and struggles with his pain.
Knock'd down, he dies: his bowels, bruis'd within,
Betray no wound on his unbroken skin.
Extended thus, in this obscene abode
They leave the beast; but first sweet flow'rs are strow'd
Beneath his body, broken boughs and thyme,
And pleasing cassia just renew'd in prime.
This must be done, ere spring makes equal day,
When western winds on curling waters play;
Ere painted meads produce their flow'ry crops,
Or swallows twitter on the chimney tops.
The tainted blood, in this close prison pent,
Begins to boil, and thro' the bones ferment.
Then, wondrous to behold, new creatures rise,
A moving mass at first, and short of thighs;
Till, shooting out with legs, and imp'd with wings,
The grubs proceed to bees with pointed stings;
And, more and more affecting air, they try
Their tender pinions, and begin to fly:
At length, like summer storms from spreading clouds,
That burst at once, and pour impetuous floods;
Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows,
When from afar they gall embattled foes;
With such a tempest thro' the skies they steer,
And such a form the winged squadrons bear.
What god, O Muse! this useful science taught?
Or by what man's experience was it brought?
Sad Aristaeus from fair Tempe fled,
His bees with famine or diseases dead:
On Peneus' banks he stood, and near his holy head;
And, while his falling tears the stream supplied,
Thus, mourning, to his mother goddess cried:
" Mother Cyrene! mother, whose abode
As in the depth of this immortal flood!
What boots it, that from Phaebus' loins I spring,
The third, by him and thee, from heav'n's high king?
O where is all thy boasted pity gone,
And promise of the skies to thy deluded son?
Why didst thou me, unhappy me, create,
Odious to gods, and born to bitter fate?
Whom scarce my sheep, and scarce my painful plow,
The needful aids of human life allow:
So wretched is thy son, so hard a mother thou!
Proceed, inhuman parent, in thy scorn;
Root up my trees; with blights destroy my corn;
My vineyards ruin, and my sheepfolds burn.
Let loose thy rage; let all thy spite be shown,
Since thus thy hate pursues the praises of thy son. "
But, from her mossy bow'r below the ground,
His careful mother heard the plaintive sound,
Encompass'd with her sea-green sisters round.
One common work they plied; their distaffs full
With carded locks of blue Milesian wool:
Scpio, with Drymo brown, and Xanthe fair,
And sweet Phyllodoce with long dishevel'd hair;
Cydippe with Lycorias, one a maid,
And one that once had call'd Lucina's aid;
Clio and Beroe, from one father both;
Both girt with gold, and clad in party-color'd cloth;
Opis the meek, and Deiopeia proud;
Nisaea softly, with Ligea loud;
Thalia joyous, Ephyre the sad,
And Arethusa, once Diana's maid,
But now (her quiver left) to love betray'd.
To these Clymene the sweet theft declares
Of Mars, and Vulcan's unavailing cares;
And all the rapes of gods, and ev'ry love,
From ancient Chaos down to youthful Jove.
Thus while she sings, the sisters turn the wheel,
Empty the woolly rock, and fill the reel.
A mournful sound again the mother hears;
Again the mournful sound invades the sisters' ears.
Starting at once from their green seats, they rise;
Fear in their heart, amazement in their eyes.
But Arethusa, leaping from her bed,
First lifts above the waves her beauteous head,
And, crying from afar, thus to Cyrene said:
" O sister, not with causeless fear possess'd!
No stranger voice disturbs thy tender breast.
'T is Aristaeus, 't is thy darling son,
Who to his careless mother makes his moan.
Near his paternal stream he sadly stands,
With downcast eyes, wet cheeks, and folded hands,
Upbraiding heav'n, from whence his lineage came;
And cruel calls the gods, and cruel thee, by name. "
Cyrene, mov'd with love, and seiz'd with fear,
Cries out: " Conduct my son, conduct him here:
'T is lawful for the youth, deriv'd from gods,
To view the secrets of our deep abodes. "
At once she wav'd her hand on either side;
At once the ranks of swelling streams divide.
Two rising heaps of liquid crystal stand,
And leave a space betwixt of empty sand.
Thus safe receiv'd, the downward track he treads,
Which to his mother's wat'ry palace leads.
With wond'ring eyes he views the secret store
Of lakes, that pent in hollow caverns roar:
He hears the crackling sound of coral woods,
And sees the secret source of subterranean floods;
And where, distinguish'd in their sev'ral cells,
The fount of Phasis, and of Lycus, dwells;
Where swift Empeus in his bed appears,
And Tiber his majestic forehead rears;
Whence Anio flows, and Hypanis, profound,
Breaks thro' th' opposing rocks with raging sound;
Where Po first issues from his dark abodes,
And, awful in his cradle, rules the floods:
Two golden horns on his large fronThe wears,
And his grim face a bull's resemblance bears;
With rapid course he seeks the sacred main,
And fattens, as he runs, the fruitful plain.
Now, to the court arriv'd, th' admiring son
Beholds the vaulted roofs of pory stone;
Now to his mother goddess tells his grief,
Which she with pity hears, and promises relief.
Th' officious nymphs, attending in a ring,
With waters drawn from their perpetual spring,
From earthly dregs his body purify,
And rub his temples with fine towels dry;
Then load the tables with a lib'ral feast,
And honor with full bowls their friendly guest.
The sacred altars are involv'd in smoke,
And the bright choir their kindred gods invoke.
Two bowls the mother fills with Lydian wine;
Then thus: " Let these be pour'd, with rites divine,
To the great authors of our wat'ry line:
To Father Ocean, this; and this, " she said,
" Be to the nymphs his sacred sisters paid,
Who rule the wat'ry plains, and hold the woodland shade. "
She sprinkled thrice, with wine, the Vestal fire;
Thrice to the vaulted roof the flames aspire.
Rais'd with so blest an omen, she begun,
With words like these, to cheer her drooping son:
" In the Carpathian bottom makes abode
The shepherd of the seas, a prophet and a god.
High o'er the main in wat'ry pomp he rides;
His azure car and finny coursers guides:
Proteus his name — to his Pallenian port
I see from far the weary god resort.
Him not alone we river gods adore,
But aged Nereus hearkens to his lore.
With sure foresight, and with unerring doom,
He sees what is, and was, and is to come.
This Neptune gave him, when he gave to keep
His scaly flocks, that graze the wat'ry deep.
Implore his aid; for Proteus only knows
The secret cause, and cure, of all thy woes.
But first the wily wizard must be caught;
For, unconstrain'd, he nothing tells for naught;
Nor is with pray'rs, or bribes, or flatt'ry bought.
Surprise him first, and with hard fetters bind;
Then all his frauds will vanish into wind.
I will myself conduct thee on thy way;
When next the southing sun inflames the day,
When the dry herbage thirsts for dews in vain,
And sheep, in shades, avoid the parching plain:
Then will I lead thee to his secret seat,
When, weary with his toil, and scorch'd with heat,
The wayward sire frequents his cool retreat.
His eyes with heavy slumber overcast;
With force invade his limbs, and bind him fast.
Thus surely bound, yet be not over bold:
The slipp'ry god will try to loose his hold,
And various forms assume, to cheat thy sight,
And with vain images of beasts affright:
With foamy tusks will seem a bristly boar,
Or imitate the lion's angry roar;
Break out in crackling flames to shun thy snares,
Or hiss a dragon, or a tiger stares;
Or, with a wile thy caution to betray,
In fleeting streams attempt to slide away.
But thou, the more he varies forms, beware
To strain his fetters with a stricter care;
Till, tiring all his arts, he turns again
To his true shape, in which he first was seen. "
This said, with nectar she her son anoints,
Infusing vigor thro' his mortal joints:
Down from his head the liquid odors ran;
He breath'd of heav'n, and look'd above a man.
Within a mountain's hollow womb there lies
A large recess, conceal'd from human eyes,
Where heaps of billows, driv'n by wind and tide,
In form of war their wat'ry ranks divide,
And there, like sentries set, without the mouth abide:
A station safe for ships, when tempests roar,
A silent harbor, and a cover'd shore.
Secure within resides the various god,
And draws a rock upon his dark abode.
Hether with silent steps, secure from sight,
The goddess guides her son, and turns him from the light:
Herself, involv'd in clouds, precipitates her flight.
'T was noon; the sultry Dog-star from the sky
Scorch'd Indian swains; the rivel'd grass was dry;
The sun with flaming arrows pierc'd the flood,
And, darting to the bottom, bak'd the mud;
When weary Proteus, from the briny waves,
Retir'd for shelter to his wonted caves.
His finny flocks about their shepherd play,
And, rolling round him, spirt the bitter sea;
Unwieldily they wallow first in ooze,
Then in the shady covert seek repose.
Himself, their herdsman, on the middle mount,
Takes of his muster'd flocks a just account.
So, seated on a rock, a shepherd's groom
Surveys his ev'ning flocks returning home,
When lowing calves and bleating lambs, from far,
Provoke the prowling wolf to nightly war.
Th' occasion offers, and the youth complies:
For scarce the weary god had clos'd his eyes,
When, rushing on, with shouts, he binds in chains
The drowsy prophet, and his limbs constrains.
He, not unmindful of his usual art,
First in dissembled fire attempts to part:
Then roaring beasts and running streams he tries,
And wearies all his miracles of lies;
But, having shifted ev'ry form to scape,
Convinc'd of conquest, he resum'd his shape,
And thus, at length, in human accent spoke:
" Audacious youth! what madness could provoke
A mortal man t' invade a sleeping god?
What bus'ness brought thee to my dark abode? "
To this th' audacious youth: " Thou know'st full well
My name and bus'ness, god; nor need I tell.
No man can Proteus cheat; but, Proteus, leave
Thy fraudful arts, and do not thou deceive.
Foll'wing the gods' command, I come t' implore
Thy help, my perish'd people to restore. "
The seer, who could not yet his wrath assuage,
Roll'd his green eyes, that sparkled with his rage,
And gnash'd his teeth, and cried: " No vulgar god
Pursues thy crimes, nor with a common rod.
Thy great misdeeds have met a due reward;
And Orpheus' dying pray'rs at length are heard.
For crimes not his the lover lost his life,
And at thy hands requires his murther'd wife;
Nor (if the Fates assist not) canst thou scape
The just revenge of that intended rape.
To shun thy lawless lust, the dying bride,
Unwary, took along the river's side,
Nor aTher heels perceiv'd the deadly snake
That kept the bank, in covert of the brake.
But all her fellow-nymphs the mountains tear
With loud laments, and break the yielding air:
The realms of Mars remurmur'd all around,
And echoes to th' Athenian shores rebound.
Th' unhappy husband, husband now no more,
Did on his tuneful harp his loss deplore,
And sought his mournful mind with music to restore.
On thee, dear wife, in desarts all alone,
He call'd, sigh'd, sung: his griefs with day begun,
Nor were they finish'd with the setting sun.
Ev'n to the dark dominions of the night
He took his way, thro' forests void of light,
And dar'd amidst the trembling ghosts to sing,
And stood before th' inexorable king.
Th' infernal troops like passing shadows glide,
And, list'ning, crowd the sweet musician's side.
Not flocks of birds, when driv'n by storms or night,
Stretch to the forest with so thick a flight:
Men, matrons, children, and th' unmarried maid,
The mighty hero's more majestic shade,
And youths on fun'ral piles before their parents laid.
All these Cocytus bounds with squalid reeds,
With muddy ditches, and with deadly weeds;
And baleful Styx encompasses around,
With nine slow circling streams, th' unhappy ground.
Ev'n from the depths of hell the damn'd advance;
Th' infernal mansions, nodding, seem to dance;
The gaping three-mouth'd dog forgets to snarl;
The Furies hearken, and their snakes uncurl;
Ixion seems no more his pains to feel,
But leans attentive on his standing wheel.
" All dangers pass'd, at length the lovely bride
In safety goes, with her melodious guide,
Longing the common light again to share,
And draw the vital breath of upper air:
He first; and close behind him follow'd she;
For such was Proserpine's severe decree —
When strong desires th' impatient youth invade,
By little caution and much love betray'd:
A fault which easy pardon might receive,
Were lovers judges, or could Hell forgive.
For, near the confines of ethereal light,
And longing for the glimm'ring of a sight,
Th' unwary lover cast his eyes behind,
Forgetful of the law, nor master of his mind.
Straight all his hopes exhal'd in empty smoke,
And his long toils were forfeit for a look.
Three flashes of blue lightning gave the sign
Of cov'nants broke; three peals of thunder join.
Then thus the bride: " What fury seiz'd on thee,
Unhappy man! to lose thyself and me?
Dragg'd back again by cruel destinies,
An iron slumber shuts my swimming eyes.
And now, farewell! Involv'd in shades of night,
Forever I am ravish'd from thy sight.
In vain I reach my feeble hands, to join
In sweet embraces — ah! no longer thine!"
She said; and from his eyes the fleeting fair
Retir'd like subtile smoke dissolv'd in air,
And lefTher hopeless lover in despair.
In vain, with folding arms, the youth assay'd
To stop her flight, and strain the flying shade: