The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase Part 3

Whene'er their balmy sweets you mean to seize, And take the liquid labours of the bees, Spurt draughts of water from your mouth, and drive A loathsome cloud of smoke amidst their hive, Twice in the year their flowery toils begin, _300 And twice they fetch their dewy harvest in; Once, when the lovely Pleiades arise, And add fresh l.u.s.tre to the summer skies; And once, when hastening from the watery sign, They quit their station, and forbear to shine.

The bees are p.r.o.ne to rage, and often found To perish for revenge, and die upon the wound Their venomed sting produces aching pains, And swells the flesh, and shoots among the veins.

When first a cold hard winter's storms arrive, _310 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 thyme before their cells convey, And cut their dry and husky wax away; For often lizards 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 hums, and with unequal arms; _320 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 the effects of frail mortality, By certain marks the new disease is seen, Their colour changes, and their looks are thin; Their funeral rites are formed, and every bee With grief attends the sad solemnity; The few diseased survivors hang before Their sickly cells, and droop about the door, _330 Or slowly in their hives their limbs unfold, Shrunk up with hunger, and benumbed with cold; In drawling hums the feeble insects grieve, And doleful buzzes echo through the hive, Like winds that softly murmur through 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 famished swarm to eat, _340 And gently reconcile them to their meat.

Mix juice of galls, and wine, that grow in time Condensed by fire, and thicken to a slime; To these, dried roses, thyme, and ccntaury join, And raisins, ripened on the Psythian vine.

Besides, there grows a flower in marshy ground, Its name amellus, easy to be found; A mighty spring works in its root, and cleaves The sprouting stalk, and shows itself in leaves: The flower itself is of a golden hue, _350 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; _360 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, _370 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 s.p.a.ce of ground, With straitened walls and low-built roof, they found; A narrow shelving light is next a.s.sign'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, _380 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 ca.s.sia, strowed around.

All this is done, when first the western breeze _390 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 _400 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 tw.a.n.ging strings first shoot them on the foes.

Thus have I sung the nature of the bee; While Caesar, towering to divinity, The frighted Indians with his thunder awed, _410 And claimed their homage, and commenced a G.o.d; 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 t.i.tyrus 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 G.o.d, 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 n.o.ble hints impart, Engender fury, kindle love; With unsuspected eloquence can move, And manage all the man with secret art.

When Orpheus strikes the trembling lyre, The streams stand still, the stones admire; The listening savages advance, The wolf and lamb around him trip, The bears in awkward measures leap, And tigers mingle in the dance.

The moving woods attended, as he play'd, And Rhodope was left without a shade.

IV.

Music religious heats inspires, It wakes the soul, and lifts it high, And wings it with sublime desires, And fits it to bespeak the Deity.

The Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue, And seems well-pleased and courted with a song.

Soft moving sounds and heavenly airs Give force to every word, and recommend our prayers.

When time itself shall be no more, And all things in confusion hurled, Music shall then exert its power, And sound survive the ruins of the world: Then saints and angels shall agree In one eternal jubilee: All heaven shall echo with their hymns divine, And G.o.d himself with pleasure see The whole creation in a chorus join.

CHORUS.

Consecrate the place and day, To music and Cecilia.

Let no rough winds approach, nor dare Invade the hallowed bounds, Nor rudely shake the tuneful air, Nor spoil the fleeting sounds.

Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard, But gladness dwell on every tongue; Whilst all, with voice and strings prepared, Keep up the loud harmonious song, And imitate the blest above, In joy, and harmony, and love.

AN ODE FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY.

SET TO MUSIC BY MR DANIEL PURCELL. PERFORMED AT OXFORD 1699.

Prepare the hallowed strain, my Muse, Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbers choose; The bright Cecilia's praise rehea.r.s.e, In warbling words, and gliding verse, That smoothly run into a song, And gently die away, and melt upon the tongue.

First let the sprightly violin The joyful melody begin, And none of all her strings be mute;

While the sharp sound and shriller lay _10 In sweet harmonious notes decay, Softened and mellowed by the flute.

'The flute that sweetly can complain, Dissolve the frozen nymph's disdain; Panting sympathy impart, Till she partake her lover's smart.'[4]

CHORUS.

Next, let the solemn organ join Religious airs, and strains divine, Such as may lift us to the skies, And set all Heaven before our eyes: _20 'Such as may lift us to the skies; So far at least till they Descend with kind surprise, And meet our pious harmony half-way.'

Let then the trumpet's piercing sound Our ravished ears with pleasure wound.

The soul o'erpowering with delight, As, with a quick uncommon ray, A streak of lightning clears the day, And flashes on the sight.

_30 Let Echo too perform her part, Prolonging every note with art, And in a low expiring strain Play all the concert o'er again.

Such were the tuneful notes that hung On bright Cecilia's charming tongue: Notes that sacred heats inspired, And with religious ardour fired: The love-sick youth, that long suppress'd His smothered pa.s.sion in his breast, _40 No sooner heard the warbling dame, But, by the secret influence turn'd, He felt a new diviner flame, And with devotion burn'd.

With ravished soul, and looks amazed, Upon her beauteous face he gazed; Nor made his amorous complaint: In vain her eyes his heart had charm'd, Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm'd, And changed the lover to a saint.

_50

GRAND CHORUS.

And now the choir complete rejoices, With trembling strings and melting voices.

The tuneful ferment rises high, And works with mingled melody: Quick divisions run their rounds, A thousand trills and quivering sounds In airy circles o'er us fly, Till, wafted by a gentle breeze, They faint and languish by degrees, And at a distance die.

_60

AN ACCOUNT OF THE GREATEST ENGLISH POETS

TO MR HENRY SACHEVERELL. APRIL 3, 1694.

Since, dearest Harry, you will needs request A short account of all the Muse-possess'd, That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times, Have spent their n.o.ble rage in British rhymes; Without more preface, writ in formal length, To speak the undertaker's want of strength, I'll try to make their several beauties known, And show their verses' worth, though not my own.

Long had our dull forefathers slept supine, Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine; _10 Till Chaucer first, the merry bard, arose, And many a story told in rhyme and prose.

But age has rusted what the poet writ, Worn out his language, and obscured his wit; In vain he jests in his unpolished strain, And tries to make his readers laugh in vain.

Old Spenser next, warmed with poetic rage, In ancient tales amused a barbarous age; An age that yet uncultivate and rude, Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursued _20 Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods, To dens of dragons and enchanted woods.

But now the mystic tale, that pleased of yore, Can charm an understanding age no more; The long-spun allegories fulsome grow, While the dull moral lies too plain below.

We view well-pleased at distance all the sights Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and fights, And damsels in distress, and courteous knights; But when we look too near, the shades decay, _30 And all the pleasing landscape fades away.