Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/49

 

Soft Sabe calls: of balsams need I say,
That sweat thro' aromatic wood their way,
Or berries of Acanthus? or describe 135
The flimzy fleeces, that the Seric tribe
Comb off from leaves? or mention in the West
The forests hoary with a wooly vest?
Or at Earth's verge, where Ocean laves the coast,
Declare what groves the sons of India boast, 140
A quiver'd race, whose arrows' loftiest flight
Soars not above their trees' stupendous height?
Citron, blest fruit, the Median tracts produce,
Of ling'ring savour, and of austere juice; 144
Than which no plant, when stepdames, fell of soul,
With charms and temper'd drugs have mixt the bowl,
An antidote more instant can impart,
To rout the venom, ere it reach the heart:
A large fair tree, in form so like a bay,
A bay it were, did not the boughs betray 150
A diff'ring scent; the flow'r clings firm and fast,
The leaves tenacious mock the forceful blast.
With this the Medes relieve a noisome breath,
And snatch asthmatics from the arms of Death.

Yet may not Media vie, tho' rich in woods, 155
Nor Ganges fair, nor Hermus' golden floods,

With