The Annual miscellany, for the year 1694 being the fourth part of Miscellany poems : containing great variety of new translations and original copies / by the most eminent hands.

A TRANSLATION OF ALL Virgil's 4th Georgick, EXCEPT THE Story of ARISTEUS.

By Mr. Io. ADDISON, of MAGDALEN Colledge OXON.

EThereal sweets shall next my Muse engage, And this, Mecoenas, claims your Patronage. Of little Creatures wondrous Acts I treat, The Ranks, and mighty Leaders of their State, Their Laws, Employments, and their Wars relate.

A trifling Theam provokes my Humble Lays, Trifling the Theam, not so the Poet's Praise: If Great Apollo, and the Tuneful Nine Join in the Piece, to make the Work Divine.

First, for your Bees a proper Station find, That's fenc'd about, and shelter'd from the Wind; For Winds divert 'em in their Flight, and drive The Swarms, when loaden homeward, from their Hive. Nor Sheep, nor Goats, must pasture near their Stores, To trample under foot the springing Flowers; Nor frisking Heifers bound about the place, To spurn the Dew-drops off, and bruise the rising Grass: Nor must the Lizzards painted Brood appear, Nor Wood-pecks, nor the Swallow harbour near.

These waste the Swarms, and as they flye along Convey the tender Morsels to their Young.

Let purling Streams, and Fountains edg'd with Moss, And shallow Rills run trickling through the Grass; Let Branching Olives o'er the Fountain grow, Or Palms shoot up, and shade the Streams below; That when the Youth, led by their Princes, shun The Crowded Hive, and sport it in the Sun, Refreshing Springs may tempt 'em from the Heat, And shady Coverts yield a Cool Retreat.

Whether the Neighbouring Water stands or Runs, Lay Twigs across, and Bridge it o're with Stones: That if rough Storms, or sudden Blasts of Wind Shou'd Dip, or scatter those that lag behind,

Here they may settle on the Friendly Stone, And Dry their reeking Pinions at the Sun. Plant all the flowry Banks with Lavender, With store of Sav'ry scent the fragrant Air, Let running Betony the Field o'respread, And Fountains soak the Vi'lets Dewy Bed.

Tho Barks, or plaited Willows make your Hive, A narrow Inlet to their Cells Contrive; For Colds congele and freeze the Liquors up, And, melted down with Heat, the Waxen Build∣ings drop. The Bees, of both Extreams alike afraid, Their Wax around the whistling Crannys spread, And suck out clammy Dews from Herbs and Flow'rs, To Smear the Chinks, and Plaister up the Pores,

For this they hoard up Glew, whose clinging drops, Like Pitch, or Birdlime, hang in stringy Ropes. They oft, 'tis said, in dark Retirements dwell, And work in subterraneous Caves their Cell; At other times th' Industrious Insects live In hollow Rocks, or make a Tree their Hive.

Point all their chinky Lodgings round with Mud, And leaves must thinly on your Work be strow'd; But let no baleful Eugh-Tree flourish near, Nor rotten Marshes send out steams of Mire; Nor burning Crabs grow red, and crackle in the Fire. Nor Neighb'ring Caves return the dying sound, Nor Ecchoing Rocks the doubl'd voice rebound. Things thus prepar'd—

When th' under-World is seiz'd with Cold, and Night, And Summer here descends in streams of Light, The Bees thro' Woods and Forrests take their flight. They rifle ev'ry Flow'r, and lightly skim The Chrystal Brook, and sip the running stream; And thus they feed their Young with strange de∣light, And knead the yielding Wax, and work the slimy sweet. Wut when on high, you see the Bees repair, Born on the Winds thro' distant tracts of Air, And view the winged Cloud all blackning from afar; While shady Coverts, and fresh Streams they chuse, Milfoil and common Honey-suckles bruise, And sprinkle on their Hives the fragrant juice.

On Brazen Vessels beat a tinckling sound, And shake the Cymbals of the Goddess round; Then all will hastily retreat, and fill The warm resounding Hollow of their Cell.

If e're two Rival Kings their Right debate, And Factions and Cabals embroil the State, The Peoples Actions will their Thoughts declare; All their Hearts tremble, and beat thick with War; Hoarse broken sounds, like Trumpets harsh Al∣larms, Run through the Hive, and call 'em to their Arms; All in a hurry spread their shiv'ring Wings, And fit their Claws, and point their angry Stings: In Crowds before the King's Pavilion meet, And boldly challenge out the Foe to fight:

At last, when all the Heav'ns are warm and fair, They rush together out, and join; the Air Swarms thick, and Eccho's with the Humming War. All in a firm round Cluster mix, and strow With Heaps of little Corps, the Earth below; As thick as Hail-stones from the Floor rebound, Or shaken Acorns rattle on the ground. No sence of Danger can their Kings Controul, Their little Bodies lodge a mighty Soul: Each obstinate in Arms, pursues his Blow, Till shameful Flight secures the routed Foe. This hot Dispute, and all this mighty Fray, A little Dust flung upward will allay.

But when both Kings are settl'd in their Hive, Mark him who looks the worst, and lest he live Idle at home in Ease and Luxury, The Lazy Monarch must be Doom'd to Die;

So let the Royal Insect rule alone, And Reign without a Rival in his Throne. The Kings are different; one of better Note All spect with Gold, and many a shining Spot, Looks Gay, and Glistens in a Gilded Coat; But love of Ease, and Sloth in One prevails, That scarce his Hanging Paunch behind him trails: The Peoples Looks are different as their King's, Some Sparkle Bright, and Glitter in their Wings; Others look Loathsom and diseas'd with Sloth, Like a faint Traveller whose dusty mouth Grows dry with Heat, and spits a maukish Froth. The first are Best— From their o'reflowing Combs, you'll often press Pure luscious Sweets, that mingling in the Glass, Correct the Harshness of the Racy Juice, And a rich Flavour through the Wine diffuse.

But when they sport abroad, and rove from home, And leave the cooling Hive, and quit th'unfinish'd Comb; Their Airy Ramblings are with ease confin'd, Clip their King's Wings, and if They stay behind, No bold Usurper dares Invade their Right, Nor sound a March, nor give the Sign for Flight. Let flow'ry Banks entice 'em to their Cells, And Gardens all Perfum'd with Native Smells: Where Carv'd Priapus has his fix'd abode, The Robber's Terrour, and the Scare-crow God. Wild Tyme and Pine-Trees from their Barren Hill Transplant, and nurse 'em in the Neighbouring Soil, Set Fruit-Trees round, nor e're indulge thy Sloth, But Water 'em, and urge their shady Growth.

And here, perhaps, were not I giving o're, And striking Sail, and making to the Shore, I'de shew what Art the Gard'ners Toils require, Why Rosy Paestum Blushes twice a year; What Streams the verdant Succory supply, And how the Thirsty Plant drinks Rivers dry; What with a chearful Green does Parsley grace, And writhes the bellying Cucumer along the twist∣ed Grass; Nor wou'd I pass the soft Acanthus o're, Ivy nor Myrtle-Trees that love the Shore; Nor Daffadils, that late from Earth's slow Womb Unrumple their swoln Buds, and shew their yel∣low Bloom.

For once I saw in the Tarentine Vale, Where slow Galesus drencht the washy Soil,

An old Corician Yeoman, who had got A few neglected Acres to his Lot, Where neither Corn nor Pasture grac'd the Field, Nor wou'd the Vine her Purple Harvest-yield; But sav'ry Herbs among the Thorns were found, Vervain and Poppy-flowers his Garden crown'd, And drooping Lillies whiten'd all the ground. Blest with these Riches he cou'd Empires slight, And when he rested from his Toils at Night, The Earth unpurchast Dainties wou'd afford, And his own Garden furnish out his Board: The Spring did first his op'ning Roses blow, First ripening Autumn bent his fruitful Bough. When piercing Colds had burst the brittle Stone, And freezing Rivers stiffen'd as they run, He then wou'd prune the tender'st of his Trees, Chide the late Spring, and lingring Western breeze:

His Bees first swarm'd, and made his Vessels foam With the rich squeezings of the juicy Comb. Here Lindons and the sappy Pine increas't; Here, when gay Flow'rs his smiling Orchard drest, As many Blossoms as the Spring cou'd show, So many dangling Apples mellow'd on the Bough▪ In Rows his Elms and knotty Pear-trees bloom, And Thorns ennobled now to bear a Plumb. And spreading Plane-trees, where supinely laid He now enjoys the Cool, and quaffs beneath the Shade. But these for want of room I must omit, And leave for future Poets to recite.

Now I'll proceed their Natures to declare, Which Jove himself did on the Bees confer;

Because, invited by the Timbrel's sound, Lodg'd in a Cave th' Almighty Babe they found, And the young God nurst kindly under ground.

Of all the wing'd Inhabitants of Air, These only make their young the Publick Care; In well dispos'd Societies they Live, And Laws, and Statutes regulate their Hive; Nor stray, like others, unconfin'd abroad, But know set Stations, and a fix'd Aboad: Each provident of Cold, in Summer flies Through Fields, and Woods, to seek for new Supplies, And in the common Stock unlades his Thighs. Some watch the Food, some in the Meadows ply, Taste ev'ry Bud, and suck each Blossom dry;

Whilst others, lab'ring in their Cells at home, Temper Narcissus's clammy Tears with Gum, For the first Ground-work of the Golden Comb; On this they found their Waxen Works, and raise The Yellow Fabrick on its Glewy Base. Some Educate the Young, or hatch the Seed With vital warmth, and future Nations breed; Whilst others thicken all the slimy Dews, And into purest Honey Work the Juice; Then fill the Hollows of the Comb, and swell With luscious Nectar, ev'ry flowing Cell. By turns they Watch, by turns with curious Eyes Survey the Heav'ns, and search the clouded Skies To find out breeding Storms, and tell what Tem∣pests rise. By turns they ease the loaden Swarms, or drive The Drone, a Lazy Insect, from their Hive.

The Work is warmly ply'd through all the Cells, And strong with Time the new-made Honey smells.

So in their Caves the brawny Cyclops sweat, When with huge strokes the stubborn Wedge they beat, And All th' unshapen Thunder-Bolt compleat; Alternately their Hammers rise and fall; Whilst Griping Tongs turn round the Glow∣ing Ball: With puffing Bellows some the Flames increase, And some in Waters dip the hizzing Mass; Their beaten Anvils dreadfully resound, And Aetna shakes all o're, and Thunders under Ground.

Thus, if great Things we may with small com∣pare, The busie Swarms their diff'rent Labours share.

Desire of Profit urges all Degrees; The Aged Infects, by experience Wise, Attend the Comb, and fashion ev'ry part, And Shape the Waxen Fret-work out with Art: The young at Night, returning from their Toils, Bring home their Thighs clog'd with the Mea∣dows Spoils. On Lavender, and Saffron Buds they feed, On Bending Osiers, and the Balmy Reed, From purple Violets and the Teile, they bring Their gather'd Sweets, and Rifle all the Spring.

All Work together, all together Rest, The Morning still renews their Labours past; Then all rush out, their diff'rent Tasks pursue, Sit on the Bloom, and suck the ripening Dew;

Again when Ev'ning warns 'em to their Home, With weary Wings, and heavy Thighs they come, And crowd about the Chink, and mix a Drow∣sie Humm. Into their Cells at length they gently creep, There all the Night their peaceful Station keep, Wrapt up in Silence, and Dissolv'd in Sleep.

None range abroad when Winds or Storms are nigh, Nor trust their Bodies to a faithless Sky, But make small journeys, with a careful Wing, And Fly to Water at a neighb'ring Spring; And lest their Airy Bodys shou'd be cast In restless Whirls, the sport of ev'ry Blast, They carry Stones to Poise 'em in their Flight, As Ballast keeps th' unsteady Vessel right.

But of all Customs that the Bees can boast, 'Tis this may challenge Admiration most; That none will Hymen's softer Joys approve, Nor waste their Spirits in Luxurious Love, But All a long Virginity maintain, And bring forth Young without a Mother's Pain: From Herbs and Flow'rs they pick each tender Bee, And cull from Plants a Buzzing Progeny; From these they chuse out Subjects, and Create A little Monarch of the Rising State; Then Build Wax-Kingdoms for the Infant Prince, And form a Palace for his Residence.

But often in their Journeys, as they flye, On Flints they tear their silken Wings, or lye Grov'ling beneath their flowry Load, and dye.

Thus love of Honey can an Insect fire, And in a Fly such gen'rous Thoughts inspire. Yet by re-peopling their Decaying State, Tho' sev'n short Springs conclude their vital date, Their Ancient Stocks Eternally remain, And, in an Endless Race, the Childrens Children Reign.

No Prostrate Vassal of the East can more With slavish Fear his haughty Prince adore; His life unites 'em all, but when He dies, All in loud Tumults and Distractions rise; They waste their Honey, and their Combs deface, And wild Confusion reigns in every place. Him all admire, all the Great Guardian own, And crowd about his Courts, and buz about his Throne.

Oft on their backs their weary Prince they bear, Oft in his Cause Embattl'd in the Air, Pursue a Glorious Death, in Wounds and War. "Some from such Instances as these have taught "The Bees Extract is Heav'nly; for they thought "The Universe alive; and that a Soul "Diffus'd throughout the Matter of the whole, "To all the vast unbounded Frame was giv'n, "And ran through Earth, and Air, and Sea, and all the Deep of Heav'n; "That This first kindled Life in Man and Beast, "Life that agen flows into This at last; "That no compounded Animal cou'd die, "But when dissolv'd, the Spirit mounted high, "Dwelt in a Star, and settl'd in the Skye.

When-ere their balmy Sweets you mean to seize, And take the liquid Labours of the Bees,

Spirt Draughts of Water from your Mouth, and drive A loathsom Cloud of Smoke amidst their Hive.

Twice in the Year their Flowr'y toils begin, And twice they fetch their Dewy Harvest in; Once when the lovely Pleiades arise, And add fresh Lustre to the Summer Skies; And once when hast'ning from the Watry Sign They quit their Station, and forbear to Shine.

The Bees are prone to rage, and often found To Perish for Revenge, and die upon the Wound. Their venom'd Sting produces akeing Pains, And swells the Flesh, and shoots among the Veins.

When first a cold hard Winter's Storms arrive And threaten Death, or Famine to their Hive,

If now their sinking State and low Affairs Can move your Pity, and provoke your Cares, Fresh burning Time before their Cells convey, And cut their dry and Husky Wax away; For often Lizzards seize the luscious Spoils, Or Drones that Riot on another's Toils: Oft Broods of Moths infest the hungry Swarms, And oft the furious Wasp their Hive Alarms With louder Humms, and with unequal Arms; Or else the Spider at their Entrance sets Her Snares, and spins her Bowels into Nets.

When Sickness reigns (for they as well as we Feel all th' Effects of frail Mortality) By certain Marks the new Disease is seen, Their Colour changes, and their Looks are thin; Their Fun'ral Rites are form'd, and ev'ry Bee With Grief attends the sad Solemnity;

The few Diseas'd survivors, hang before Their sickly Cells, and droop about the door, Or slowly in their Hives their Limbs unfold, Shrunk up with Hunger, and benum'd with Cold; In drawling hums, the feeble Insects grieve, And doleful buzzes ecchoe through the Hive, Like Winds that softly murmur thro' the Trees, Like Flames pent up, or like retiring Seas. Now lay fresh Honey near their empty Rooms, In Troughs of hollow Reeds, whilst frying Gums Cast round a fragrant Mist of spicy Fumes. Thus kindly tempt the famisht Swarm to eat, And gently reconcile 'em to their Meat. Mix Juice of Galls, and Wine, that grow in time condens'd by Fire, and thicken to a Slime; To these dry'd Roses, Tyme and Centry join, And Raisins ripn'd on the Psythian Vine.

Besides there grows a Flow'r in Marshy Ground, Its Name Amellus, easie to be found; A mighty Spring works in its Roto, and cleaves The sprouting Stalk, and shews it self in Leaves: The Flow'r it self is of a Golden hue, The Leaves inclining to a darker Blue; The Leaves shoot thick about the Flow'r, 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 watry Mazes flows. Take plenty of its Roots, and boil 'em well In Wine, and heap 'em up before the Cell.

But if the whole Stock fail, and none survive To raise new People, and recruit the Hive;

I'le here the great Experiment declare, That spread th' Arcadian Shepherd's Name so far, How Bees from Blood of slaughter'd Bulls have fled, And Swarms amidst the Red Corruption bred.

For where th' Egyptians yearly see their bounds Refresht with floods, and sail about their grounds, Where Persia borders, and the rolling Nile Drives swiftly down the swarthy Indians soil, ••Till into sev'n 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 streightn'd Walls and low-built Roof they bound;

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 terrours 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 trys to snort in vain, Loud heavy Mows fall thick on ev'ry side, Till his bruis'd Bowels burst within the Hide. When dead, they leave him Rotting on the Ground, With Branches, Tyme and Cassia strow'd around. All this is done when first the Western Breeze Becalms the Year, and smooths the troubl'd Seas; Before the Chatt'ring Swallow builds her Nest, Or Fields in Spring's Embroidery are drest.

Mean while the tainted Juice ferments within, And Quickens as it works: And now are seen A wondrous Swarm, that o're the Carcass crawls, Of shapeless, rude, unfinisht Animals. No Legs at first the Insects weight sustain, At length it moves its new-made Limbs with pain; Now strikes the Air with quiv'ring Wings, and trys 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 Carcass pours Its swarming Brood, as thick as Summer-show'rs, Or flights of Arrows from the Parthian Bows, When twanging Strings first shoot 'em on the Foes.

Thus have I sung the Nature of the Bee; Whilst Caesar, towring to Divinity, The frighted Indians with his Thunder aw'd, And claim'd their Homage, and Commenc't a God; I flourisht all the while in Arts of Peace, Retir'd and shelter'd 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.