Virgil

Thus to their toils, in early summer, run

The clust'ring bees, and labour in the sun;

Led forth, in colonies, their buzzing race,

Or work the liquid sweets, and thicken to a mass.

The busy nation flies from flow'r to flow'r,

And hoards, in curious cells, the golden store;

A chosen troop before the gate attends,

To take the burdens, and relieve their friends;

Warm at the fragrant work, in bands, they drive

The drone, a lazy robber, from the hive.

Euryalus

In death went reeling down,

And blood streamed on his handsome length, his neck

Collapsing let his head fall on his shoulder—

As a bright flower cut by a passing plow

Will droop and wither slowly, or a poppy

Bow its head upon its tired stalk

When overborne by a passing rain.

Loyal Achates bore the weapons.

Is it then so sad a thing to die?

Rage finds them arms.

But then, if they chance to see a man among them,

whose devotion and public service lend him weight,

they stand there, stock-still with their ears alert as

he rules their furor with his words and calms their passion.

I sing of arms and of a man: his fate

had made him fugitive; he was the first

to journey from the coasts of Troy as far

as Italy and the Lavinian shores.

Every man's last day is fixed.

Lifetimes are brief and not to be regained,

For all mankind. But by their deeds to make

Their fame last: that is labor for the brave.

Trojan and Tyrian I shall treat with no distinction.

I cannot bear a mother's tears.

Each one his own hope.

She spoke, and as she turned away, her roseate neck flashed bright. From her head her ambrosial tresses breathed celestial fragrance; down to her feet fell her raiment, and in her step she was revealed a very goddess.

An awful misshapen monster, huge, his eyelight lost.