Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/20

 

Or Sol's more potent fervours, or the cold
Of penetrating Boreas scorch the mould. 110
Nor is the ground ungrateful to the swain,
Who plies his harrows oft, and o'er the plain
Drags osier hurdles; from her throne on high
On him brown Ceres bends a gracious eye:
Nor less his fields he profits, who once more 115
Cleaves the rough ridges he had rais'd before,
His share obliquely turn'd, with callous hands
Incessant toils, the tyrant of his lands.

Ye husbandmen! intreat the gods by pray'r
For wat'ry solstices, and winters fair: 120
With laughing corn the laughing lands abound,
On the dry earth when brumal dust is found:
At no time Mysia boasts so rich a plain,
And Garg'rus wonders at his waving grain.
Need I name him, who, having sown his seed, 125
Rests not, but prosecutes his task with speed,
Of the lean gravel sweeps away the hills,
Then from the fountains calls the streamy rills?
With dying herbage when the parcht glebe glows,
Down channell'd steeps th' obedient runnel flows;
O'er the smooth stones a murmur hoarse it yields, 130
And with brisk bubblings cools the thirsty fields.

Or