Georgic IV

Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I nowTake up the tale. Upon this theme no lessLook 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 backThe foragers with food returning home)Nor sheep and butting kids tread down the flowers,Nor heifer wandering wide upon the plainDash off the dew, and bruise the springing blades.Let the gay lizard too keep far aloofHis scale-clad body from their honied stalls,And the bee-eater, and what birds beside,And Procne smirched with blood upon the breastFrom her own murderous hands. For these roam wideWasting all substance, or the bees themselvesStrike flying, and in their beaks bear home, to glutThose 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 chiefsLead 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 findAnd 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 breathBloom round about, and violet-beds hard bySip sweetness from the fertilizing springs.For the hive's self, or stitched of hollow bark,Or from tough osier woven, let the doorsBe strait of entrance; for stiff winter's coldCongeals the honey, and heat resolves and thaws,To bees alike disastrous; not for naughtSo haste they to cement the tiny poresThat pierce their walls, and fill the crevicesWith pollen from the flowers, and glean and keepTo this same end the glue, that binds more fastThan 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 cribsWith warm smooth mud-coat, and strew leaves above;But near their home let neither yew-tree grow,Nor reddening crabs be roasted, and mistrustDeep 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 putWinter 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 isWith some sweet rapture, that we know not of,Their little ones they foster, hence with skillWork out new wax or clinging honey mould.So when the cage-escaped hosts you seeFloat heavenward through the hot clear air, untilYou marvel at yon dusky cloud that spreadsAnd lengthens on the wind, then mark them well;For then 'tis ever the fresh springs they seekAnd bowery shelter: hither must you bringThe savoury sweets I bid, and sprinkle them,Bruised balsam and the wax-flower's lowly weed,And wake and shake the tinkling cymbals heardBy the great Mother: on the anointed spotsThemselves will settle, and in wonted wiseSeek of themselves the cradle's inmost depth.But if to battle they have hied them forth-For oft 'twixt king and king with uproar direFierce feud arises, and at once from farYou may discern what passion sways the mob,And how their hearts are throbbing for the strife;Hark! the hoarse brazen note that warriors knowChides on the loiterers, and the ear may catchA 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 rolledInto one mighty mass, and headlong fall,Not denselier hail through heaven, nor pelting soRains from the shaken oak its acorn-shower.Conspicuous by their wings the chiefs themselvesPress through the heart of battle, and displayA giant's spirit in each pigmy frame,Steadfast no inch to yield till these or thoseThe victor's ponderous arm has turned to flight.Such fiery passions and such fierce assaultsA 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 letHis 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 wayfarerScapes from a whirl of dust, and scorched with heatSpits 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 goldSymmetric: this the likelier breed; from these,When heaven brings round the season, thou shalt strainSweet 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 playMust you refrain their volatile desires,Nor hard the task: tear off the monarchs' wings;While these prove loiterers, none beside will dareMount heaven, or pluck the standards from the camp.Let gardens with the breath of saffron flowersAllure them, and the lord of Hellespont,Priapus, wielder of the willow-scythe,Safe in his keeping hold from birds and thieves.And let the man to whom such cares are dearHimself bring thyme and pine-trees from the heights,And strew them in broad belts about their home;No hand but his the blistering task should ply,Plant the young slips, or shed the genial showers.And I myself, were I not even nowFurling my sails, and, nigh the journey's end,Eager to turn my vessel's prow to shore,Perchance would sing what careful husbandryMakes the trim garden smile; of Paestum too,Whose roses bloom and fade and bloom again;How endives glory in the streams they drink,And green banks in their parsley, and how the gourdTwists through the grass and rounds him to paunch;Nor of Narcissus had my lips been dumb,That loiterer of the flowers, nor supple-stemmedAcanthus, with the praise of ivies pale,And myrtles clinging to the shores they love.For 'neath the shade of tall Oebalia's towers,Where dark Galaesus laves the yellowing fields,An old man once I mind me to have seen-From Corycus he came- to whom had fallenSome few poor acres of neglected land,And they nor fruitful' neath the plodding steer,Meet for the grazing herd, nor good for vines.Yet he, the while his meagre garden-herbsAmong the thorns he planted, and all roundWhite lilies, vervains, and lean poppy set,In pride of spirit matched the wealth of kings,And home returning not till night was late,With unbought plenty heaped his board on high.He was the first to cull the rose in spring,He the ripe fruits in autumn; and ere yetWinter had ceased in sullen ire to riveThe rocks with frost, and with her icy bitCurb in the running waters, there was hePlucking the rathe faint hyacinth, while he chidSummer's slow footsteps and the lagging West.Therefore he too with earliest brooding beesAnd their full swarms o'erflowed, and first was heTo press the bubbling honey from the comb;Lime-trees were his, and many a branching pine;And all the fruits wherewith in early bloomThe orchard-tree had clothed her, in full taleHung there, by mellowing autumn perfected.He too transplanted tall-grown elms a-row,Time-toughened pear, thorns bursting with the plumAnd plane now yielding serviceable shadeFor dry lips to drink under: but these things,Shut off by rigorous limits, I pass by,And leave for others to sing after me.Come, then, I will unfold the natural powersGreat Jove himself upon the bees bestowed,The boon for which, led by the shrill sweet strainsOf the Curetes and their clashing brass,They fed the King of heaven in Dicte's cave.Alone of all things they receive and holdCommunity of offspring, and they houseTogether in one city, and beneathThe shelter of majestic laws they live;And they alone fixed home and country know,And in the summer, warned of coming cold,Make proof of toil, and for the general storeHoard up their gathered harvesting. For someWatch o'er the victualling of the hive, and theseBy settled order ply their tasks afield;And some within the confines of their homePlant firm the comb's first layer, Narcissus' tear,And sticky gum oozed from the bark of trees,Then set the clinging wax to hang therefrom.Others the while lead forth the full-grown young,Their country's hope, and others press and packThe thrice repured honey, and stretch their cellsTo bursting with the clear-strained nectar sweet.Some, too, the wardship of the gates befalls,Who watch in turn for showers and cloudy skies,Or ease returning labourers of their load,Or form a band and from their precincts driveThe drones, a lazy herd. How glows the work!How sweet the honey smells of perfumed thymeLike the Cyclopes, when in haste they forgeFrom the slow-yielding ore the thunderbolts,Some from the bull's-hide bellows in and outLet the blasts drive, some dip i' the water-troughThe sputtering metal: with the anvil's weightGroans Etna: they alternately in timeWith giant strength uplift their sinewy arms,Or twist the iron with the forceps' grip-Not otherwise, to measure small with great,The love of getting planted in their breastsGoads on the bees, that haunt old Cecrops' heights,Each in his sphere to labour. The old have chargeTo keep the town, and build the walled combs,And mould the cunning chambers; but the youth,Their tired legs packed with thyme, come labouring homeBelated, for afar they range to feedOn arbutes and the grey-green willow-leaves,And cassia and the crocus blushing red,Glue-yielding limes, and hyacinths dusky-eyed.One hour for rest have all, and one for toil:With dawn they hurry from the gates- no roomFor loiterers there: and once again, when evenNow bids them quit their pasturing on the plain,Then homeward make they, then refresh their strength:A hum arises: hark! they buzz and buzzAbout the doors and threshold; till at lengthSafe laid to rest they hush them for the night,And welcome slumber laps their weary limbs.But from the homestead not too far they fare,When showers hang like to fall, nor, east winds nigh,Confide in heaven, but 'neath the city wallsSafe-circling fetch them water, or essayBrief out-goings, and oft weigh-up tiny stones,As light craft ballast in the tossing tide,Wherewith they poise them through the cloudy vast.This law of life, too, by the bees obeyed,Will move thy wonder, that nor sex with sexYoke they in marriage, nor yield their limbs to love,Nor know the pangs of labour, but aloneFrom leaves and honied herbs, the mothers, each,Gather their offspring in their mouths, aloneSupply new kings and pigmy commonwealth,And their old court and waxen realm repair.Oft, too, while wandering, against jagged stonesTheir wings they fray, and 'neath the burden yieldTheir liberal lives: so deep their love of flowers,So glorious deem they honey's proud acquist.Therefore, though each a life of narrow span,Ne'er stretched to summers more than seven, befalls,Yet deathless doth the race endure, and stillPerennial stands the fortune of their line,From grandsire unto grandsire backward told.Moreover, not Aegyptus, nor the realmOf boundless Lydia, no, nor Parthia's hordes,Nor Median Hydaspes, to their kingDo such obeisance: lives the king unscathed,One will inspires the million: is he dead,Snapt is the bond of fealty; they themselvesRavage their toil-wrought honey, and rend amainTheir own comb's waxen trellis. He is the lordOf all their labour; him with awful eyeThey reverence, and with murmuring throngs surround,In crowds attend, oft shoulder him on high,Or with their bodies shield him in the fight,And seek through showering wounds a glorious death.Led by these tokens, and with such traits to guide,Some say that unto bees a share is givenOf the Divine Intelligence, and to drinkPure draughts of ether; for God permeates all-Earth, and wide ocean, and the vault of heaven-From whom flocks, herds, men, beasts of every kind,Draw each at birth the fine essential flame;Yea, and that all things hence to Him return,Brought back by dissolution, nor can deathFind place: but, each into his starry rank,Alive they soar, and mount the heights of heaven.If now their narrow home thou wouldst unseal,And broach the treasures of the honey-house,With draught of water first toment thy lips,And spread before thee fumes of trailing smoke.Twice is the teeming produce gathered in,Twofold their time of harvest year by year,Once when Taygete the Pleiad upliftsHer comely forehead for the earth to see,With foot of scorn spurning the ocean-streams,Once when in gloom she flies the watery Fish,And dips from heaven into the wintry wave.Unbounded then their wrath; if hurt, they breatheVenom into their bite, cleave to the veinsAnd let the sting lie buried, and leave their livesBehind them in the wound. But if you dreadToo rigorous a winter, and would fainTemper the coming time, and their bruised heartsAnd broken estate to pity move thy soul,Yet who would fear to fumigate with thyme,Or cut the empty wax away? for oftInto 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 foeSwoops 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 allTo mend the fallen fortunes of their raceWill 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 bringOur human chances, if in dire diseaseTheir bodies' strength should languish- which anonBy no uncertain tokens may be told-Forthwith the sick change hue; grim leanness marsTheir visage; then from out the cells they bearForms reft of light, and lead the mournful pomp;Or foot to foot about the porch they hang,Or within closed doors loiter, listless allFrom 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 boomsWith back-swung billow, as ravening tide of fireSurges, 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 appetiteTo taste the well-known food; and it shall bootTo mix therewith the savour bruised from gall,And rose-leaves dried, or must to thickness boiledBy a fierce fire, or juice of raisin-grapesFrom Psithian vine, and with its bitter smellCentaury, and the famed Cecropian thyme.There is a meadow-flower by country folkHight 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 deckedHeaven's altars: harsh its taste upon the tongue;Shepherds in vales smooth-shorn of nibbling flocksBy 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 discloseTaught by the swain of Arcady, even howThe blood of slaughtered bullocks oft has borneBees from corruption. I will trace me backTo 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 ownSkim in their painted wherries; where, hard by,The quivered Persian presses, and that floodWhich from the swart-skinned Aethiop bears him down,Swift-parted into sevenfold branching mouthsWith black mud fattens and makes Aegypt green,That whole domain its welfare's hope secureRests on this art alone. And first is chosenA strait recess, cramped closer to this end,Which next with narrow roof of tiles atop'Twixt prisoning walls they pinch, and add heretoFrom the four winds four slanting window-slits.Then seek they from the herd a steer, whose hornsWith two years' growth are curling, and stop fast,Plunge madly as he may, the panting mouthAnd nostrils twain, and done with blows to death,Batter his flesh to pulp i' the hide yet whole,And shut the doors, and leave him there to lie.But 'neath his ribs they scatter broken boughs,With thyme and fresh-pulled cassias: this is doneWhen first the west winds bid the waters flow,Ere flush the meadows with new tints, and ereThe twittering swallow buildeth from the beams.Meanwhile the juice within his softened bonesHeats and ferments, and things of wondrous birth,Footless at first, anon with feet and wings,Swarm there and buzz, a marvel to behold;And more and more the fleeting breeze they take,Till, like a shower that pours from summer-clouds,Forth burst they, or like shafts from quivering stringWhen Parthia's flying hosts provoke the fray.Say what was he, what God, that fashioned forthThis art for us, O Muses? of man's skillWhence came the new adventure? From thy vale,Peneian Tempe, turning, bee-bereft,So runs the tale, by famine and disease,Mournful the shepherd Aristaeus stoodFast by the haunted river-head, and thusWith many a plaint to her that bare him cried:"Mother, Cyrene, mother, who hast thy homeBeneath this whirling flood, if he thou sayest,Apollo, lord of Thymbra, be my sire,Sprung from the Gods' high line, why barest thou meWith fortune's ban for birthright? Where is nowThy love to me-ward banished from thy breast?O! wherefore didst thou bid me hope for heaven?Lo! even the crown of this poor mortal life,Which all my skilful care by field and fold,No art neglected, scarce had fashioned forth,Even this falls from me, yet thou call'st me son.Nay, then, arise! With thine own hands pluck upMy fruit-plantations: on the homestead flingPitiless fire; make havoc of my crops;Burn the young plants, and wield the stubborn axeAgainst my vines, if there hath taken theSuch loathing of my greatness." But that cry,Even from her chamber in the river-deeps,His mother heard: around her spun the nymphsMilesian wool stained through with hyaline dye,Drymo, Xantho, Ligea, Phyllodoce,Their glossy locks o'er snowy shoulders shed,Cydippe and Lycorias yellow-haired,A maiden one, one newly learned even thenTo bear Lucina's birth-pang. Clio, too,And Beroe, sisters, ocean-children both,Both zoned with gold and girt with dappled fell,Ephyre and Opis, and from Asian meadsDeiopea, and, bow at length laid by,Fleet-footed Arethusa. But in their midstFair Clymene was telling o'er the taleOf Vulcan's idle vigilance and the stealthOf Mars' sweet rapine, and from Chaos oldCounted the jostling love-joys of the Gods.Charmed by whose lay, the while their woolly tasksWith spindles down they drew, yet once againSmote on his mother's ears the mournful plaintOf Aristaeus; on their glassy thronesAmazement held them all; but ArethuseBefore the rest put forth her auburn head,Peering above the wave-top, and from farExclaimed, "Cyrene, sister, not for naughtScared by a groan so deep, behold! 'tis he,Even Aristaeus, thy heart's fondest care,Here by the brink of the Peneian sireStands woebegone and weeping, and by nameCries out upon thee for thy cruelty."To whom, strange terror knocking at her heart,"Bring, bring him to our sight," the mother cried;"His feet may tread the threshold even of Gods."So saying, she bids the flood yawn wide and yieldA pathway for his footsteps; but the waveArched mountain-wise closed round him, and withinIts mighty bosom welcomed, and let speedTo the deep river-bed. And now, with eyesOf wonder gazing on his mother's hallAnd watery kingdom and cave-prisoned poolsAnd echoing groves, he went, and, stunned by thatStupendous whirl of waters, separate sawAll streams beneath the mighty earth that glide,Phasis and Lycus, and that fountain-headWhence first the deep Enipeus leaps to light,Whence father Tiber, and whence Anio's flood,And Hypanis that roars amid his rocks,And Mysian Caicus, and, bull-browed'Twixt either gilded horn, Eridanus,Than whom none other through the laughing plainsMore furious pours into the purple sea.Soon as the chamber's hanging roof of stoneWas gained, and now Cyrene from her sonHad heard his idle weeping, in due courseClear water for his hands the sisters bring,With napkins of shorn pile, while others heapThe board with dainties, and set on afreshThe brimming goblets; with Panchaian firesUpleap the altars; then the mother spake,"Take beakers of Maconian wine," she said,"Pour we to Ocean." Ocean, sire of all,She worships, and the sister-nymphs who guardThe hundred forests and the hundred streams;Thrice Vesta's fire with nectar clear she dashed,Thrice to the roof-top shot the flame and shone:Armed with which omen she essayed to speak:"In Neptune's gulf Carpathian dwells a seer,Caerulean Proteus, he who metes the mainWith fish-drawn chariot of two-footed steeds;Now visits he his native home once more,Pallene and the Emathian ports; to himWe nymphs do reverence, ay, and Nereus old;For all things knows the seer, both those which areAnd have been, or which time hath yet to bring;So willed it Neptune, whose portentous flocks,And loathly sea-calves 'neath the surge he feeds.Him first, my son, behoves thee seize and bindThat he may all the cause of sickness show,And grant a prosperous end. For save by forceNo rede will he vouchsafe, nor shalt thou bendHis soul by praying; whom once made captive, plyWith rigorous force and fetters; against theseHis wiles will break and spend themselves in vain.I, when the sun has lit his noontide fires,When the blades thirst, and cattle love the shade,Myself will guide thee to the old man's haunt,Whither he hies him weary from the waves,That thou mayst safelier steal upon his sleep.But when thou hast gripped him fast with hand and gyve,Then divers forms and bestial semblancesShall mock thy grasp; for sudden he will changeTo bristly boar, fell tigress, dragon scaled,And tawny-tufted lioness, or send forthA crackling sound of fire, and so shake ofThe fetters, or in showery drops anonDissolve and vanish. But the more he shiftsHis endless transformations, thou, my son,More straitlier clench the clinging bands, untilHis body's shape return to that thou sawest,When with closed eyelids first he sank to sleep."So saying, an odour of ambrosial dewShe sheds around, and all his frame therewithSteeps throughly; forth from his trim-combed locksBreathed effluence sweet, and a lithe vigour leaptInto his limbs. There is a cavern vastScooped in the mountain-side, where wave on waveBy the wind's stress is driven, and breaks far upIts inmost creeks- safe anchorage from of oldFor tempest-taken mariners: therewithin,Behind a rock's huge barrier, Proteus hides.Here in close covert out of the sun's eyeThe youth she places, and herself the whileSwathed in a shadowy mist stands far aloof.And now the ravening dog-star that burns upThe thirsty Indians blazed in heaven; his courseThe fiery sun had half devoured: the bladesWere parched, and the void streams with droughty jawsBaked to their mud-beds by the scorching ray,When Proteus seeking his accustomed caveStrode from the billows: round him frolickingThe watery folk that people the waste seaSprinkled the bitter brine-dew far and wide.Along the shore in scattered groups to feedThe sea-calves stretch them: while the seer himself,Like herdsman on the hills when evening bidsThe steers from pasture to their stall repair,And the lambs' bleating whets the listening wolves,Sits midmost on the rock and tells his tale.But Aristaeus, the foe within his clutch,Scarce suffering him compose his aged limbs,With a great cry leapt on him, and ere he roseForestalled him with the fetters; he nathless,All unforgetful of his ancient craft,Transforms himself to every wondrous thing,Fire and a fearful beast, and flowing stream.But when no trickery found a path for flight,Baffled at length, to his own shape returned,With human lips he spake, "Who bade thee, then,So reckless in youth's hardihood, affrontOur portals? or what wouldst thou hence?"- But he,"Proteus, thou knowest, of thine own heart thou knowest;For thee there is no cheating, but cease thouTo practise upon me: at heaven's behestI for my fainting fortunes hither comeAn oracle to ask thee." There he ceased.Whereat the seer, by stubborn force constrained,Shot forth the grey light of his gleaming eyesUpon him, and with fiercely gnashing teethUnlocks his lips to spell the fates of heaven:"Doubt not 'tis wrath divine that plagues thee thus,Nor light the debt thou payest; 'tis Orpheus' self,Orpheus unhappy by no fault of his,So fates prevent not, fans thy penal fires,Yet madly raging for his ravished bride.She in her haste to shun thy hot pursuitAlong the stream, saw not the coming death,Where at her feet kept ward upon the bankIn the tall grass a monstrous water-snake.But with their cries the Dryad-band her peersFilled up the mountains to their proudest peaks:Wailed for her fate the heights of Rhodope,And tall Pangaea, and, beloved of Mars,The land that bowed to Rhesus, Thrace no lessWith Hebrus' stream; and Orithyia wept,Daughter of Acte old. But Orpheus' self,Soothing his love-pain with the hollow shell,Thee his sweet wife on the lone shore alone,Thee when day dawned and when it died he sang.Nay to the jaws of Taenarus too he came,Of Dis the infernal palace, and the groveGrim with a horror of great darkness- came,Entered, and faced the Manes and the KingOf terrors, the stone heart no prayer can tame.Then from the deepest deeps of Erebus,Wrung by his minstrelsy, the hollow shadesCame trooping, ghostly semblances of formsLost to the light, as birds by myriads hieTo greenwood boughs for cover, when twilight-hourOr storms of winter chase them from the hills;Matrons and men, and great heroic framesDone with life's service, boys, unwedded girls,Youths placed on pyre before their fathers' eyes.Round them, with black slime choked and hideous weed,Cocytus winds; there lies the unlovely swampOf dull dead water, and, to pen them fast,Styx with her ninefold barrier poured between.Nay, even the deep Tartarean Halls of deathStood lost in wonderment, and the Eumenides,Their brows with livid locks of serpents twined;Even Cerberus held his triple jaws agape,And, the wind hushed, Ixion's wheel stood still.And now with homeward footstep he had passedAll perils scathless, and, at length restored,Eurydice to realms of upper airHad well-nigh won, behind him following-So Proserpine had ruled it- when his heartA sudden mad desire surprised and seized-Meet fault to be forgiven, might Hell forgive.For at the very threshold of the day,Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve,He stopped, turned, looked upon EurydiceHis own once more. But even with the look,Poured out was all his labour, broken the bondOf that fell tyrant, and a crash was heardThree times like thunder in the meres of hell.'Orpheus! what ruin hath thy frenzy wroughtOn me, alas! and thee? Lo! once againThe unpitying fates recall me, and dark sleepCloses my swimming eyes. And now farewell:Girt with enormous night I am borne away,Outstretching toward thee, thine, alas! no more,These helpless hands.' She spake, and suddenly,Like smoke dissolving into empty air,Passed and was sundered from his sight; nor himClutching vain shadows, yearning sore to speak,Thenceforth beheld she, nor no second timeHell's boatman brooks he pass the watery bar.What should he do? fly whither, twice bereaved?Move with what tears the Manes, with what voiceThe Powers of darkness? She indeed even nowDeath-cold was floating on the Stygian barge!For seven whole months unceasingly, men say,Beneath a skyey crag, by thy lone wave,Strymon, he wept, and in the caverns chillUnrolled his story, melting tigers' hearts,And leading with his lay the oaks along.As in the poplar-shade a nightingaleMourns her lost young, which some relentless swain,Spying, from the nest has torn unfledged, but sheWails the long night, and perched upon a sprayWith sad insistence pipes her dolorous strain,Till all the region with her wrongs o'erflows.No love, no new desire, constrained his soul:By snow-bound Tanais and the icy north,Far steppes to frost Rhipaean forever wed,Alone he wandered, lost EurydiceLamenting, and the gifts of Dis ungiven.Scorned by which tribute the Ciconian dames,Amid their awful Bacchanalian ritesAnd midnight revellings, tore him limb from limb,And strewed his fragments over the wide fields.Then too, even then, what time the Hebrus stream,Oeagrian Hebrus, down mid-current rolled,Rent from the marble neck, his drifting head,The death-chilled tongue found yet a voice to cry'Eurydice! ah! poor Eurydice!'With parting breath he called her, and the banksFrom the broad stream caught up 'Eurydice!'"So Proteus ending plunged into the deep,And, where he plunged, beneath the eddying whirlChurned into foam the water, and was gone;But not Cyrene, who unquestioned thusBespake the trembling listener: "Nay, my son,From that sad bosom thou mayst banish care:Hence came that plague of sickness, hence the nymphs,With whom in the tall woods the dance she wove,Wrought on thy bees, alas! this deadly bane.Bend thou before the Dell-nymphs, gracious powers:Bring gifts, and sue for pardon: they will grantPeace to thine asking, and an end of wrath.But how to approach them will I first unfold-Four chosen bulls of peerless form and bulk,That browse to-day the green Lycaean heights,Pick from thy herds, as many kine to match,Whose necks the yoke pressed never: then for theseBuild up four altars by the lofty fanes,And from their throats let gush the victims' blood,And in the greenwood leave their bodies lone.Then, when the ninth dawn hath displayed its beams,To Orpheus shalt thou send his funeral dues,Poppies of Lethe, and let slay a sheepCoal-black, then seek the grove again, and soonFor pardon found adore EurydiceWith a slain calf for victim."No delay:The self-same hour he hies him forth to doHis mother's bidding: to the shrine he came,The appointed altars reared, and thither ledFour chosen bulls of peerless form and bulk,With kine to match, that never yoke had known;Then, when the ninth dawn had led in the day,To Orpheus sent his funeral dues, and soughtThe grove once more. But sudden, strange to tellA portent they espy: through the oxen's flesh,Waxed soft in dissolution, hark! there humBees from the belly; the rent ribs overboilIn endless clouds they spread them, till at lastOn yon tree-top together fused they cling,And drop their cluster from the bending boughs.So sang I of the tilth of furrowed fields,Of flocks and trees, while Caesar's majestyLaunched forth the levin-bolts of war by deepEuphrates, and bare rule o'er willing folkThough vanquished, and essayed the heights of heaven.I Virgil then, of sweet ParthenopeThe nursling, wooed the flowery walks of peaceInglorious, who erst trilled for shepherd-wightsThe wanton ditty, and sang in saucy youthThee, Tityrus, 'neath the spreading beech tree's shade.