Page:Virgil's Pastorals, Georgics and Aeneis - Dryden (1709) - volume 1.pdf/367

Geor. IV. With lifted Arms they order ev'ry Blow, And chime their sounding Hammers in a Row; With labour'd Anvils Ætna groans below. Strongly they strike, huge Flakes of Flames expire, With Tongs they turn the Steel, and vex it in the Fire. If little things with great we may compare, Such are the Bees, and such their buisie Care: Studious of Honey, each in his Degree, The youthful Swain, the grave experienc'd Bee: That in the Field; this in Affairs of State, Employ'd at home, abides within the Gate: To fortify the Combs, to build the Wall, To prop the Ruins lest the Fabrick fall: But late at Night, with weary Pinions come The labr'ring Youth, and heavy laden home. Plains, Meads, and Orchards all the day he plies, The gleans of yellow Thime distend his Thighs: He spoils the Saffron Flow'rs, he sips the blues Of Vi'lets, wilding Blooms, and Willow Dews. Their Toil is common, common is their Sleep; They shake their Wings when Morn begins to peep; Rush through the City Gates without delay, Nor ends their Work, but with declining Day: Then having spent the last remains of Light, They give their Bodies due repose at Night: When hollow Murmurs of their Ev'ning Bells, Dismiss the sleepy Swains, and toll 'em to their Cells.