Book IV

Next will I discourse of Heaven's gift, the honey from the skies. On this part, too, of my task, Maecenas, look with favour. The wondrous pageant of a tiny world — chiefs great-hearted, a whole nation's character and tastes and tribes and battles — I will in due order unfold to thee. Slight is the field of toil; but not slight the glory, if adverse powers leave one free, and Apollo hearkens unto prayer.

First seek a settled home for your bees, whither the winds may find no access — for the winds let them not carry home their food — where no ewes or sportive kids may trample the flowers, nor straying heifer brush off the dew from the mead and bruise the springing blade. Let the spangled lizard with his scaly back be also a stranger to the rich stalls, and the bee-eater and other birds, and Procne, with breast marked by her blood-stained hands. For these spread havoc far and near, and, while the bees are on the wing, carry them off in their mouths, a sweet morsel for their cruel nestlings. But let clear springs be near, and moss-green pools, and a tiny brook stealing through the grass; and let a palm or huge wild olive shade the porch, so that, when the new kings lead forth the early swarms in the spring they love, and the youth revel in their freedom from the combs, a bank near by may tempt them to quit the heat, and a tree in their path may hold them in its sheltering leafage. In the midst of the water, whether it stand idle or flow onward, cast willows athwart and huge stones, that they may have many bridges whereon to halt and spread their wings to the summer sun, if haply the East-wind has sprinkled the loiterers or with swift gust has plunged them in the flood. All about let green cassia bloom, and wild thyme with fragrance far borne, and a wealth of strong-scented savory; and let violet-beds drink of the trickling spring.

Then, let the hive itself, whether it be sewn of hollow bark, or woven of pliant osier, have its entrances narrow; for winter with its cold congeals the honey, while heat thaws and makes it run. Either trouble is alike to be feared for the bees; nor is it with vain zeal that in their homes they smear the tiny crevices with wax, fill the chinks with paste from flowers, and keep a store of glue, gathered for this very purpose, more binding than lime or the pitch of Phrygian Ida. Oft, too, if report be true, they have made a snug home in tunnelled hiding-places underground, and are found deep in the hollows of pumice rock, or the cavern of a decayed tree. Yet do you keep them snug, smearing the chinks of their chambers with smooth clay, and flinging thereon a few leaves. And suffer no yew too near the hive, nor roast the reddening crab at your hearth; and trust not a deep marsh or a place where the smell of mud is strong, or where the hollow rocks ring when struck, and the echoed voice rebounds from the shock.

For the rest, when the golden Sun has driven winter in rout beneath the earth, and with summer light unlocked the sky, straightway they range through glades and groves, cull bright flowers, and lightly sip the stream's brink. Hence it is that, glad with some strange joy, they cherish nest and nestlings; hence they deftly mould fresh wax and fashion the gluey honey. Hence when you look up and see the host, just freed from the hive, floating towards the starry sky through the clear summer air — when you marvel at the dark cloud trailing down the wind — mark it well; they are ever in quest of sweet waters and leafy coverts. Here scatter the scents I prescribe — bruised balm, and the honey wort's lowly herb; raise a tinkling sound, and shake the Mighty Mother's cymbals round about. Of themselves will they settle on the scented resting-places; of themselves, after their wont, will hide far within their cradling cells.

But, if haply for battle they have gone forth — for oft-times strife with terrible turmoil hath fallen on two kings; and straightway you may presage from afar the fury of the crowd, and how their hearts thrill with war; for the warlike ring of the hoarse clarion stirs the loiterers, and a sound is heard that is like unto broken trumpet-blasts. Then, all afire, they flock together: their wings flash, they whet their stings on their beaks and make ready their arms. Round their king, and even by his royal tent, they swarm in throngs, and with loud cries challenge the foe. Therefore, when they have found a clear spring day and open field, they sally forth from the gates. There is a clash; in high air arises a din; they are mingled and massed in one great ball, then tumble headlong: no thicker is hail from the sky, not so dense is the rain of acorns from the shaken oak. In the midst of the ranks the chiefs themselves, with resplendent wings, have mighty souls beating in tiny breasts, ever steadfast not to yield, until the victor's heavy hand has driven these or those to turn their backs in flight. These storms of passion, these conflicts so fierce, by the tossing of a little dust are quelled and laid to rest.

But when you have called both captains back from the field, give up to death the meaner of look, that he prove no wasteful burden; let the nobler reign in the palace alone. The one will be aglow with rough spots of gold. For there are two sorts: one is better, noble of mien and bright with gleaming scales; the second squalid from sloth, and trailing ignobly a broad paunch. As twofold are the features of the kings, so are the bodies of the subjects. For some are ugly and unsightly, as when from out of deep dust comes the parched wayfarer, and spits the dirt from his dried mouth. Others gleam, and flash in splendour, their bodies all ablaze and flecked with equal drops of gold. This is the nobler breed; from this, in the sky's due season, you will strain sweet honey — yet not so sweet as clear, and fit to subdue the harsh flavour of wine.

But when the swarms flit aimlessly and sport in the air, scorning their cells and leaving their hives chill, you must check their fickle spirit from such idle play. No hard task is it to check them. Do you tear from the monarchs their wings; while they tarry, no one will dare to go forth aloft, or pluck the standards from the camp. Let there be gardens fragrant with saffron flowers to invite them, and let the watchman against thieves and birds, guardian Priapus, lord of the Hellespont, protect them with his willow-hook. Let him, to whom such care falls, himself bring thyme and wild laurels from high mountains, and plant them widely round their homes; himself harden his hand with stern toil; himself plant in the ground fruitful slips and sprinkle kindly showers.

And in truth, were I not now hard on the very close of my toils, furling my sails, and hastening to turn my prow to land, perchance, too, I might be singing what careful tillage decks rich gardens, singing of the rose-beds of twice-blooming Paestum; how the endive rejoices in the streams it drinks, and the green banks in the parsley; and how the gourd, winding along the ground, swells into its paunch. Nor had I been silent on the late-blooming narcissus, or the curling acanthus-stem, the pale ivy or the shore-loving myrtle. For I call to mind how under the towers of Oebalia's citadel, where dark Galaesus waters his yellow fields, I saw an old Corycian, who had a few acres of unclaimed land, and this a soil not rich enough for bullocks' ploughing, unfitted for the flock, and unkindly to the vine. Yet, as he planted herbs here and there among the bushes, with white lilies about, and vervain, and slender poppy, he matched in contentment the wealth of kings, and, returning home in the late evening, would load his board with unbought dainties. He was first to pluck roses in spring and apples in autumn; and when sullen winter was still bursting rocks with the cold, and curbing running waters with ice, he was already culling the soft hyacinth's bloom, chiding laggard summer and the loitering zephyrs. So he, too, was first to be enriched with mother-bees and a plenteous swarm, the first to gather frothing honey from the squeezed comb. Luxuriant were his limes and wild laurels; and all the fruits his bounteous tree donned in its early bloom, full as many it kept in the ripeness of autumn. He, too, planted out in rows elms far-grown, pear-trees when quite hard, thorns even now bearing plums, and the plane already yielding to drinkers the service of its shade. But I, barred by these narrow bounds, pass by this theme, and leave it for others after me to tell.

Come now, the qualities which Jove himself has given bees, I will unfold — even the reward, for which they followed the tuneful sounds and clashing bronzes of the Curetes, and fed the king of Heaven within the cave of Dicte. They alone have children in common, hold the dwellings of their city jointly, and pass their life under the majesty of law. They alone know a fatherland and fixed home, and in summer, mindful of the winter to come, spend toilsome days and garner their gains into a common store. For some watch over the gathering of food, and under fixed covenant labour in the fields; some, within the confines of their homes, lay down the narcissus' tears and gluey gum from tree-bark as the first foundation of the comb, then hang aloft clinging wax; others lead out the full-grown young, the nation's hope; others pack purest honey, and swell the cells with liquid nectar. To some it has fallen by lot to be sentries at the gates, and in turn they watch the rains and clouds of heaven, or take the loads of incomers, or in martial array drive the drones, a lazy herd, from the folds. All aglow is the work, and the fragrant honey is sweet with thyme. And as, when the Cyclopes in haste forge bolts from tough ore, some with ox-hide bellows make the blasts come and go, others dip the hissing brass in the lake, while Aetna groans under the anvils laid upon her; they, with mighty force, now one, now another, raise their arms in measured cadence, and turn the iron with gripping tongs — even so, if we may compare small things with great, an inborn love of gain spurs on the Attic bees, each after its own office. The aged have charge of the towns, the building of the hives, the fashioning of the cunningly wrought houses. But the young betake them home in weariness, late at night, their thighs freighted with thyme; far and wide they feed on arbutus, on pale-green willows, on cassia and ruddy crocus, on the rich linden, and the dusky hyacinth. All have one season to rest from labour, all one season to toil. At dawn they pour from the gates — no loitering; again, when the star of eve has warned them to withdraw from their pasture in the fields, then they seek their homes, then they refresh their frames; a sound is heard, as they hum about the entrances and on the thresholds. Anon, when they have laid them to rest in their chambers, silence reigns into the night, and well-earned sleep seizes their weary limbs. Nor yet, if rain impend, do they stray far from their stalls, or trust the sky when eastern gales are near, but round about, beneath the shelter of their city walls, draw water, and essay short flights; and often they raise tiny stones, as unsteady barques take up ballast in a tossing sea, and with these balance themselves amid the unsubstantial clouds.

Yea, and you will marvel that this custom has found favour with bees, that they indulge not in conjugal embraces, nor idly unnerve their bodies in love, or bring forth young with travail, but of themselves gather their children in their mouths from leaves and sweet herbs, of themselves provide a new monarch and tiny burghers, and remodel their palaces and waxen realms. Often, too, as they wander among rugged rocks they bruise their wings, and freely yield their lives under their load — so deep is their love of flowers and their glory in begetting honey. Therefore, though the limit of a narrow span awaits the bees themselves — for never stretches it beyond the seventh summer — yet the race abides immortal, for many a year stands firm the fortune of the house, and grandsires' grandsires are numbered on the roll.

Moreover, neither Egypt nor mighty Lydia, nor the Parthian tribes, nor Median Hydaspes, show such homage to their king. While he is safe, all are of one mind; when he is lost, straightway they break their fealty, and themselves pull down the honey they have reared and tear up their trellised combs. He is the guardian of their toils; to him they do reverence; all stand round him in clamorous crowd, and attend him in throngs. Often they lift him on their shoulders, for him expose their bodies to battle, and seek amid wounds a glorious death.

Led by such tokens and such instances, some have taught that the bees have received a share of the divine intelligence, and a draught of heavenly ether; for God, they say, pervades all things, earth and sea's expanse and heaven's depth; from Him the flocks and herds, men and beasts of every sort draw, each at birth, the slender stream of life; yea, unto Him all beings thereafter return, and, when unmade, are restored; no place is there for death, but, still quick, they fly unto the ranks of the stars, and mount to the heavens aloft.

Whenever you would break into the stately dwelling and the honey hoarded in their treasure-houses, first with a draught of water sprinkle and rinse your mouth, and in your hand hold forth searching smoke. Their rage is beyond measure; when hurt, they breathe poison into their bites, and fastening on the veins leave there their unseen stings and lay down their lives in the wound. Twice they gather the teeming produce; two seasons are there for the harvest — first, so soon as Taygete the Pleiad has shown her comely face to the earth, and spurned with scornful foot the streams of Ocean, and when that same star, fleeing before the sign of the watery Fish, sinks sadly from heaven into the wintry waves.

But if you fear a rigorous winter, and would be lenient with their future, and have pity for their crushed spirits and broken fortunes — yet who would hesitate to fumigate them with thyme, and cut away the empty waxen cells? For oft the newt, unnoticed, has nibbled at the combs, the light-shunning beetles cram the chambers, and the unhelpful drone seats him at another's board. Or the fierce hornet has rushed upon their unequal forces, or the moths appear, a pestilent race, or the spider, hateful to Minerva, hangs in the doorway her loose-woven nets. The more their hoards are drained, the more eagerly will they press on to repair the ruin of their fallen race, filling up their cell-galleries and weaving their granaries with flower-gum.

But, since to bees as well hath life brought the ills of man, if their bodies droop with a grievous disease — and this you can at once discern by no uncertain signs: straightway, as they sicken, their colour changes, an unsightly leanness mars their looks; anon forth from their doors they bear the bodies of those bereft of life, and lead the mournful funeral train; or else, linked foot to foot, there by the portal they hang, or within locked doors they linger, all spiritless with hunger and torpid with pinching cold. Then is heard a duller sound, a long-drawn buzz, as at times the chill South sighs in the woods, as the fretted sea whistles with its ebbing surge, as seethes in close-barred furnaces the devouring flame. Then would I have you burn forthwith fragrant gum, and give them honey through pipes of reed, freely heartening them, and calling the weary to their familiar food. It will be well, too, to blend the flavour of pounded galls, and dried rose-leaves, or must made rich over a strong fire, or dried clusters from the Psithian vine, with Attic thyme and strong-smelling centaury. A flower, too, there is in the meadows, which farmers have called amellus, a plant easy for searchers to find, for from a single clump it lifts a vast growth. Golden is the disk, but in the petals, streaming profusely round, there is a crimson gleam amid the dark violet. Often with its woven garlands have the gods' altars been decked; its flavour is bitter in the mouth; shepherds cull it in meadows cropped by the flock, and by Mella's winding streams. This plant's roots you must boil in fragrant wine, and set for food at their doors in full baskets.

But if anyone's whole brood has suddenly failed him, and he knows not how to restore the race in a new line, then is it also time to reveal the famed device of the Arcadian master, and the mode whereby oft, in the past, the putrid blood of slain bullocks has engendered bees. From its fount I will unfold the whole story, tracing it back from its first source. For where the favoured people of Pellaean Canopus dwell by the outspread waters of the flooded Nile, and sail about their fields in painted skiffs, where the borderland of quivered Persia presses close, and where the river parts its rushing stream into seven separate mouths, making green Egypt rich with its black sands — the river that has swept unbroken down from the swarthy Indians — all the country rests on this device its sure salvation.

First is chosen a place, small and straitened for this very purpose. This they confine with a narrow roof of tiles and close walls, and towards the four winds add four windows with slanting light. Then a bullock is sought, one just arching his horns on a brow of two summers' growth. Spite of all his struggles, both his nostrils are stopped up, and the breath of his mouth; then he is beaten to death, and his flesh is pounded to a pulp through the unbroken hide. As thus he lies, they leave him in his prison, and strew beneath his sides broken boughs, thyme, and fresh cassia. This is done when the zephyrs begin to stir the waves, ere the meadows blush with their fresh hues, ere the chattering swallow hangs her nest from the rafters. Meantime the moisture, warming in the softened bones, ferments, and creatures of wondrous wise to view, footless at first, soon with buzzing wings as well, swarm together, and more and more essay the light air, until, like a shower pouring from summer clouds, they burst forth, or like arrows from the string's rebound, when the light-armed Parthians enter on the opening battle.

What god, ye Muses, forged for us this device? Whence did man's strange adventuring take its rise? Aristaeus the shepherd, quitting Tempe by the Peneus, when — so runs the tale — his bees were lost through sickness and hunger, sorrowfully stopped beside the sacred fount at the stream's head, and with many plaints called on his mother thus: "O mother, mother Cyrene, that dwellest in this flood's depths, why, from the gods' glorious line — if indeed, as thou sayest, Thymbraean Apollo is my father — didst thou give me birth, to be hated of the fates? Or Whither is thy love for me banished? Why didst thou bid me hope for Heaven? Lo, even this very crown of my mortal life, which the skilful tending of crops and cattle had scarce wrought out for me for all my endeavour — though thou art my mother, I resign. Nay, come, and with thine own hand tear up my fruitful woods; lay the hostile flame to my stalls, destroy my crops, burn my seedlings, and swing the stout axe against my vines, if such loathing for my honour hath seized thee."

But his mother heard the cry from her bower beneath the river's depths. About her the Nymphs were spinning fleeces of Miletus, dyed with rich glassy hue — Drymo and Xantho, Ligea and Phyllodoce, their shining tresses floating over snowy necks; Cydippe and golden-haired Lycorias — a maiden one, the other having but felt the first birth-throes; Clio and Beroe her sister, daughters of Ocean both, both arrayed in gold, and both in dappled hides; Ephyre and Opis, and Asian Deiopea, and fleet Arethusa, her arrows laid aside at last. Among these Clymene was telling of Vulcan's baffled care, of the wiles and stolen joys of Mars, and from Chaos on was rehearsing the countless loves of the gods. And while, charmed by the strain, they unrolled the soft coils from their spindles, again the wail of Aristaeus smote upon his mother's ear, and all upon their crystal thrones were startled. Yet, first of all the sisters, Arethusa, looking forth, raised her golden head above the water's brim, and cried from afar: "O sister Cyrene, no idle alarm is thine at wailing so loud. 'Tis even he, thy chiefest care, thy Aristaeus, standing sadly and in tears by the wave of Father Peneus, and crying out on thee by name for cruelty."

To her the mother, her soul smitten with strange dread, cries: "O bring him, bring him to us; lawful it is for him to tread the threshold divine." And withal, she bade the deep streams part asunder far, that so the youth might enter in. And lo, the wave, arched mountain-like, stood round about, and, welcoming him within the vast recess, ushered him beneath the stream. And now, marvelling at his mother's home, a realm of waters, at the lakes locked in caverns, and the echoing groves, he went on his way, and, dazed by the mighty rush of waters, he gazed on all the rivers, as, each in his own place, they glide under the great earth — Phasis and Lycus, the fount whence deep Enipeus first breaks forth, whence Father Tiber, whence the streams of Anio and rocky, roaring Hypanis, and Mysian Caicus, and Eridanus, on whose bull's brow are twain gilded horns: no other stream of mightier force flows through the rich tilth to join the violet sea.

Soon as he reached the bower with its hanging roof of stone, and Cyrene heard the tale of her son's idle tears, the sisters, in due order, pour on his hands clear spring-waters, and bring smooth-shorn napkins. Some load the board with the feast, and in turn set on the brimming cups; the altars blaze up with Panchaean fires. Then cried his mother: "Take the goblets of Maeonian wine; pour we a libation to Ocean!" And withal she prayed to Ocean, universal father, and the sister Nymphs, who guard a hundred forests and a hundred streams. Thrice with clear nectar she sprinkled the glowing hearth; thrice the flame, shooting up to the roof-top, gleamed afresh. With this omen to cheer his heart, she thus herself began:

"In Neptune's Carpathian flood there dwells a seer, Proteus, of sea-green hue, who traverses the mighty main in his car drawn by fishes and a team of two-footed steeds. Even now he revisits the havens of Thessaly and his native Pallene. To him we Nymphs do reverence, and aged Nereus himself; for the seer has knowledge of all things — what is, what hath been, what is in train ere long to happen — for so has it seemed good to Neptune, whose monstrous herds and unsightly seals he pastures beneath the wave. Him, my son, thou must first take in fetters, that he may unfold to thee all the cause of the sickness, and bless the issue. For without force he will give thee no counsel, nor shalt thou bend him by prayer. With stern force and fetters make fast the captive; thereon alone his wiles will shatter themselves in vain. I myself, when the sun has kindled his noonday heat, when the grass is athirst, and the shade is now welcome to the flock, will guide thee to the aged one's retreat, whither when weary he retires, so that thou mayest assail him with ease as he lies asleep. But when thou holdest him in the grasp of hands and fetters, then will manifold forms baffle thee, and figures of wild beasts. For of a sudden he will become a bristly boar, a deadly tiger, a scaly serpent, or a lioness with tawny neck; or he will give forth the fierce roar of flame, and thus slip from his fetters, or he will melt into fleeting water and be gone. But the more he turn himself into all shapes, the more, my son, strain thou his fetters, until after his last changes of body he become such as thou sawest when he closed his eyes at the beginning of slumber."

She spake, and shed abroad ambrosia's fragrant stream, wherewith she steeped her son's whole frame: and lo, a sweet effluence breathed from his smoothened locks, and vigour and suppleness passed into his limbs. There is a vast cavern, hollowed in a mountain's side, whither many a wave is driven by the wind, then parts into receding ripples — at times a haven most sure for storm-caught mariners. Within, Proteus shelters himself with the barrier of a huge rock. Here the Nymph stations the youth in ambush, away from the light; she herself, veiled in a mist, stands aloof. And now the Dog-star, fiercely parching the thirsty Indians, was ablaze in heaven, and the fiery Sun had consumed half his course; the grass was withering and the hollow streams, in their parched throats, were scorched and baked by the rays down to the slime, when Proteus came from the waves, in quest of his wonted grot. About him the watery race of the vast deep gambolled, scattering afar the briny spray. The seals lay them down to sleep, here and there along the shore; he himself — even as at times the warder of a sheepfold on the hills, when Vesper brings the steers home from pasture, and the cry of bleating lambs whets the wolf's hunger — sits down on a rock in the midst and tells his tale. Soon as the chance came to Aristaeus, he scarce suffered the aged one to settle his weary limbs, ere he burst upon him with a loud cry and surprised him in fetters as he lies. On his part, the seer forgets not his craft, but changes himself into all wondrous shapes — into flame and hideous beast and flowing river. But when no stratagem wins escape, vanquished he returns to himself, and at last speaks with human voice: "Why, who," he cried, "most presumptuous of youths, bade thee invade our home? Or what seekest thou hence?" But he: "Thou knowest, Proteus; thou knowest of thyself, nor may one deceive thee in aught, but do thou resign thy wish to deceive. Following the counsel of Heaven, we are come to seek hence an oracle for our weary fortunes." So much he spoke. On this the seer, yielding at last to mighty force, rolled on him eyes ablaze with grey-green light, and, grimly gnashing his teeth, thus unlocked his lips to tell the fates:

There is a god whose anger pursues thee: a heavy offence thou dost expiate, 'Tis Orpheus, unhappy one, who evokes this vengeance against thee — did not Fate interpose — far short of thy deserts, and wildly he rages for the loss of his bride. She, in truth, hastening headlong along the river, if only she might escape thee, saw not the monstrous serpent that before her feet, doomed maiden, hugged the banks amid the deep grass. But the band of her Dryad comrades filled with their cries the mountain-peaks; the towers of Rhodope wept, and the Pangaean heights, and the martial land of Rhesus, the Getae and Hebrus and Orithyia, child of Acte. But he, solacing love's anguish with his hollow shell, sang of thee, sweet wife — of thee, to himself on the lonely shore; of thee as day drew nigh, of thee as day declined. Even the jaws of Taenarus, the lofty portals of Dis, he entered, and the grove that is murky with black terror, and came to the dead, and the king of terrors, and the hearts that know not how to soften at human prayers. Startled by the strain, there came from the lowest realms of Erebus the bodiless shadows and the phantoms of those bereft of light, in multitude like the thousands of birds that hide amid the leaves when the evening star or a wintry shower drives them from the hills — mothers and men, and bodies of high-souled heroes, their life now done, boys and unwedded girls, and sons placed on the pyre before their fathers' eyes. But round them are the black ooze and unsightly reeds of Cocytus, the unlovely mere enchaining them with its sluggish water, and Styx holding them fast within his ninefold circles. Nay, the very halls of Hell were spell-bound, and inmost Tartarus, and the Furies with livid snakes entwined in their locks. Cerberus held agape his triple mouths, and Ixion's wheel was stayed by the still wind.

"And now as he retraced his steps he had escaped every mischance, and the regained Eurydice was nearing the upper world, following behind — for that condition had Proserpine ordained — when a sudden frenzy seized Orpheus, unwary in his love, frenzy meet for pardon, did Hell know how to pardon! He stopped, and on the very verge of light, unmindful, alas! and vanquished in purpose, on Eurydice, now his own, looked back! In that moment all his toil was spent, the ruthless tyrant's pact was broken, and thrice a crash was heard amid the pools of Avernus. She cried: "What madness, Orpheus, what dreadful madness hath ruined my unhappy self and thee? Lo, again the cruel Fates call me back and sleep veils my swimming eyes. And now farewell! I am swept off, wrapped in uttermost night, and stretching out to thee strengthless hands, thine, alas! no more." She spake, and straightway from his sight, like smoke mingling with thin air, vanished afar, and, vainly as he clutched at the shadows and yearned to say much, never saw him more; nor did the warden of Orcus suffer him again to pass that barrier of the marsh. What could he do? Whither turn himself, twice robbed of his wife? With what tears move Hell, with what prayers its powers? She, alas! even now death-cold, was afloat in the Stygian barque. Month in, month out, seven whole months, men say, beneath a skyey cliff by lonely Strymon's wave, he wept, and, deep in icy caverns, unfolded this his tale, charming the tigers, and making the oaks attend his strain; even as the nightingale, mourning beneath the poplar's shade, bewails the loss of her brood, that a churlish ploughman hath espied and torn unfledged from the nest: but she weeps all night long, and, perched on a spray, renews her piteous strain, filling the region round with sad laments. No love, no wedding-song could bend his soul. Alone he would roam the northern ice, the snowy Tanais, and the fields ever wedded to Rhipaean frosts, wailing Eurydice lost, and the gift of Dis annulled. But the Ciconian dames, scorned by such devotion, in the midst of their sacred rites and the midnight orgies of Bacchus, tore the youth limb from limb and strewed him broadcast over the fields. Even then, while Oeagrian Hebrus swept and rolled in mid-current that head, plucked from its marble neck, the bare voice and death-cold tongue, with fleeting breath, called Eurydice — ah, hapless Eurydice! 'Eurydice!' the banks re-echoed, all adown the stream."

Thus Proteus, and at a bound plunged into the deep sea, and where he plunged, whirled the water into foam beneath the eddy. But not so Cyrene; for straightway she spake to the startled youth: "My son, thou mayest lay aside thy heart's sorrow and care. This is the whole cause of the sickness; hence it is that the Nymphs, with whom she was wont to tread the dance in the deep groves, sent this sore havoc on thy bees. Offer thou a suppliant's gifts, craving grace, and do homage to the gentle maidens of the woods; for they will grant pardon to prayers, and relax their wrath. But first I will tell thee in order the manner of thy supplication. Pick out four choice bulls, of surpassing form, that now graze among thy herds on the heights of green Lycaeus, and as many heifers of unyoked neck. For these set up four altars by the stately shrines of the goddesses, and drain the sacrificial blood from their throats, but leave the bodies of the steers within the leafy grove. Anon, when the ninth Dawn displays her rising beams, thou shalt send unto Orpheus funeral dues of Lethe's poppies, shalt slay a black ewe and revisit the grove. Then to Eurydice, now appeased, thou shalt do worship with the slaughter of a calf."

Tarrying not, he straightway does his mother's bidding. He comes to the shrine, rears the altars appointed, and leads thither four choice bulls, of surpassing form, and as many heifers of unyoked neck. Anon, when the ninth Dawn had ushered in her rising beams, he sends unto Orpheus the funeral dues, and revisits the grove. But here they espy a portent, sudden and wondrous to tell — throughout the paunch, amid the molten flesh of the oxen, bees buzzing and swarming forth from the ruptured sides, then trailing in vast clouds, till at last on a tree-top they stream together, and hang in clusters from the bending boughs.

Thus I sang of the care of fields, of cattle, and of trees, while great Caesar thundered in war by deep Euphrates and gave a victor's laws unto willing nations, and essayed the path to Heaven. In those days I, Virgil, was nursed of sweet Parthenope, and rejoiced in the arts of inglorious ease — I who dallied with shepherds' songs, and, in youth's boldness, sang, Tityrus, of thee under thy spreading beech's covert.