The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase. Джозеф Аддисон

flower itself is of a golden hue,

        The leaves inclining to a darker blue;

        The leaves shoot thick about the flower, and grow

        Into a bush, and shade the turf below:

        The plant in holy garlands often twines

        The altars' posts, and beautifies the shrines;

        Its taste is sharp, in vales new-shorn it grows,

        Where Mella's stream in watery mazes flows.

        Take plenty of its roots, and boil them well

        In wine, and heap them up before the cell.

           But if the whole stock fail, and none survive;

        To raise new people, and recruit the hive,

        I'll here the great experiment declare,

        That spread the Arcadian shepherd's name so far.

        How bees from blood of slaughtered bulls have fled,

        And swarms amidst the red corruption bred.

           For where the Egyptians yearly see their bounds

        Refreshed with floods, and sail about their grounds,

        Where Persia borders, and the rolling Nile

        Drives swiftly down the swarthy Indian's soil,

        Till into seven it multiplies its stream,

        And fattens Egypt with a fruitful slime:

        In this last practice all their hope remains,

        And long experience justifies their pains.

           First, then, a close contracted space of ground,

        With straitened walls and low-built roof, they found;

        A narrow shelving light is next assign'd

        To all the quarters, one to every wind;

        Through these the glancing rays obliquely pierce:

        Hither they lead a bull that's young and fierce,

        When two years' growth of horn he proudly shows,

        And shakes the comely terrors of his brows:

        His nose and mouth, the avenues of breath,

        They muzzle up, and beat his limbs to death;

        With violence to life and stifling pain

        He flings and spurns, and tries to snort in vain,

        Loud heavy blows fall thick on every side,

        Till his bruised bowels burst within the hide;

        When dead, they leave him rotting on the ground,

        With branches, thyme, and cassia, strowed around.

        All this is done, when first the western breeze

        Becalms the year, and smooths the troubled seas;

        Before the chattering swallow builds her nest,

        Or fields in spring's embroidery are dress'd.

        Meanwhile the tainted juice ferments within,

        And quickens as its works: and now are seen

        A wondrous swarm, that o'er the carcase crawls,

        Of shapeless, rude, unfinished animals.

        No legs at first the insect's weight sustain,

        At length it moves its new-made limbs with pain;

        Now strikes the air with quivering wings, and tries

        To lift its body up, and learns to rise;

        Now bending thighs and gilded wings it wears

        Full grown, and all the bee at length appears;

        From every side the fruitful carcase pours

        Its swarming brood, as thick as summer showers,

        Or flights of arrows from the Parthian bows,

        When twanging strings first shoot them on the foes.

           Thus have I sung the nature of the bee;

        While Cæsar, towering to divinity,

        The frighted Indians with his thunder awed,

        And claimed their homage, and commenced a god;

        I flourished all the while in arts of peace,

        Retired and sheltered in inglorious ease;

        I who before the songs of shepherds made,

        When gay and young my rural lays I play'd,

        And set my Tityrus beneath his shade.

      A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,

      AT OXFORD

      I

              Cecilia, whose exalted hymns

                 With joy and wonder fill the blest,

              In choirs of warbling seraphims,

                 Known and distinguished from the rest,

              Attend, harmonious saint, and see

              Thy vocal sons of harmony;

        Attend, harmonious saint, and hear our prayers;

                 Enliven all our earthly airs,

        And, as thou sing'st thy God, teach us to sing of thee;

                 Tune every string and every tongue,

              Be thou the Muse and subject of our song.

      II

              Let all Cecilia's praise proclaim,

              Employ the echo in her name,

              Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise,

              At bright Cecilia's name, their lays;

              The organ labours in her praise.

        Cecilia's name does all our numbers grace,

            From every voice the tuneful accents fly,

            In soaring trebles now it rises high,

        And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base.

            Cecilia's name through all the notes we sing,

                The work of every skilful tongue,

                The sound of every trembling string,

                The sound and triumph of our song.

      III

                For ever consecrate the day,

                To music and Cecilia;

            Music, the greatest good that mortals know,

            And all of heaven we have below.

               Music can noble hints impart,

        Engender fury, kindle love;

        With unsuspected eloquence can move,

               And manage all the man with secret art.

               When Orpheus strikes the trembling