FRUIT OF OLD.
3
Thy mother's myrtle if the globe shall bring,
To crown thee sire of corn and tempest-king:
Or com'st thou god of the unmeasur'd sea,
And sailors own no providence but thee; 35
Shall Thulé be thy serf, and Tethys crave
Thy hand for some sweet heiress of the wave?
Or wilt thou lend the laggard months thy star,
Where flies the Virgin from the claws afar,
The Scorpion folds his fiery arms awry, 40
And leaves thee larger moiety of sky.
Whate'er thy choice (since Orcus hopes in vain,
Nor hast thyself so dark a lust of reign;
Though Greece admire the meads of asphodel,
And Proserpine be satisfied with hell), 45
Whate'er thy choice, vouchsafe my voyage good speed,
And bid my gallant enterprise succeed;
For waylost rustics deign with me to feel,
Advance, and learn to honour our appeal.
When Spring is new, and mountains grey with thaw, 50
And loam grows mealy to the zephyr's flaw,
The plough at once my groaning bull must bear,
And chafed along the furrow gleam the share.
To crown thee sire of corn and tempest-king:
Or com'st thou god of the unmeasur'd sea,
And sailors own no providence but thee; 35
Shall Thulé be thy serf, and Tethys crave
Thy hand for some sweet heiress of the wave?
Or wilt thou lend the laggard months thy star,
Where flies the Virgin from the claws afar,
The Scorpion folds his fiery arms awry, 40
And leaves thee larger moiety of sky.
Whate'er thy choice (since Orcus hopes in vain,
Nor hast thyself so dark a lust of reign;
Though Greece admire the meads of asphodel,
And Proserpine be satisfied with hell), 45
Whate'er thy choice, vouchsafe my voyage good speed,
And bid my gallant enterprise succeed;
For waylost rustics deign with me to feel,
Advance, and learn to honour our appeal.
When Spring is new, and mountains grey with thaw, 50
And loam grows mealy to the zephyr's flaw,
The plough at once my groaning bull must bear,
And chafed along the furrow gleam the share.
