At spring-tide first he pluck’d the full-blown rose,
From autumn first the ripen’d apple chose;
And e’en when winter split the rocks with cold,
And chain’d the o’erhanging torrent as it roll’d,
His blooming hyacinths, ne’er known to fail,
Shed scents unborrow’d of the vernal gale,
As 'mid their rifled beds he wound his way,
Chid the slow sun, and zephyr’s long delay.
Hence first his bees new swarms unnumber’d gave,
And press’d from richest combs the golden wave;