How twisting gourds pursue their mazy way, How verdant celery decks its humid bed, How late-blown flow'rets round narcissus spread; And myrtle blooming on the sea-beat shore. Yes, I remember where Galæsus leads His flood dark-winding through the golden meads, Where never lab'ring yoke subsistence gain'd, And grafted thorns that blushing plumes display'd, Ah! fav'rite scenes! to other bards resign'd, I leave your charms, and trace my task assign'd. To each his part; age claims th' entrusted care To rear the palace, and the dome repair; The young, returning home at dead of night, Faint, droop beneath the thyme that loads their flight. Where'er a willow waves, or arbute grows, Or hyacinth unfolds its purple hue, Flow'r, shrub, and grove, for them their sweets renew. Alike they labor, and alike repose; Forth from their gates each morn the nation flows; Not Lydia's sons, nor Parthia's peopled shore He guards their works, his looks deep rev'rence draws, A portion of the God, and heavenly mind; For God goes forth, and spreads throughout the whole- Fly whence they sprung, and rest in God again, Spurn at the grave, and fearless of decay, Live 'mid the host of heaven, and star th' ethereal way. If wintry dearth thy prescient fears create, The beetle there, that flies the light of day There feasts th' unbidden drone-there ring the alarms Dire gnaws the moth, and o'er their portals spread The spider watches her aërial thread. Yet still, when most oppress'd, they mostly strive, And tax their strength to renovate the hive; Contending myriads urge exhaustless powers, Fill every cell, and crowd the comb with flowers. Translation of W. SOTHEBY. PUBLIUS VIRGILIUS Maro, 70-19 B. C. FROM SHAKSPEARE. So work the honey-bees; Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach They have a king, and officers of sorts; Where some, like magistrates, correct at home: Which pillage they with merry march bring home Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold; Henry V., Act I., S. 2. THE DRONE. FROM "THE FEMININE MONARCHY, OR THE HISTORY OF BEES." The drone is a gross, stingless bee, that spendeth his time in gluttony and idleness; for howsoever he brave it with his round, velvet cap, his side gown, his full paunch, and his loud voice, yet is he but an idle companion, living by the sweat of others' brows. He worketh not at all, either at home or abroad, and yet spendeth as much as two laborers; you shall never find his man without a good drop of the purest nectar. In the heat of the day he flieth abroad, aloft, and about, and that with no small noise, as though he would do some great act; but it is only for his pleasure, and to get him a stomach, and then returns he pleasantly to his cheer. CHARLES BUTLER, 1634. BEE. MEMORY OF THE Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn, O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? THE DEATH OF THE BEE. FROM SALMONIA." SAMUEL ROGERS. Phys. * Let me now call your attention to that Michaelmas daisy. A few minutes ago, before the sun sunk behind the hill, its flowers were covered with varieties of bees, and some wasps, all busy in feeding on its sweets. I never saw a more animated scene of insect enjoyment. The bees were most of them humble-bees, but many of them new varieties to me, and the wasps appeared different from any I have seen before. Hal. I believe this is one of the last autumnal flowers that insects of this kind haunt. In sunny days it is their constant point of resort, and it would afford a good opportunity to the entomologist to make a collection of British bees. Poict. I neither hear the hum of the bee, nor can I see any on its flowers. They are now deserted. Phys. Since the sun has disappeared, the cool of the evening has, I suppose, driven the little winged plunderers to their homes; but see! there are two or three humble-bees which seem languid with the cold, and yet they have their tongues still in the fountain of honey. I believe one of them is actually dead, yet his mouth is still attached to the flower. He has fallen asleep, and probably died while making his last meal of ambrosia. SIR HUMPHREY DAVY. SONNET. The honey-bee, that wanders all day long, Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast, The single drop of sweetness closely press'd Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet, ANNE C. LYNCH. |