Or shall I tell his caution, who, thro' fear
The weak stem sink beneath the weighty ear,
In the young blade feeds down the wanton crop, 135
The shoots just level with the furrows' top?
Or him why mention, who with anxious pains
From the soak'd sands the marshy moisture drains,
Chief in the changeful months, if, o'er his shores
Rising, the river lift his swelling stores; 140
The trenches, as they drink the reeking tide,
Steam, and a slimy deluge stretches wide?
Nor slight the mischief, tho' the cultur'd soil
Of men and beasts confess the various toil,
If cranes and wicked geese the spot invade, 145
And bitter succ'ry spread, or trees o'ershade.
Nor thou repine: great Jove, with tasks untry'd
To rouse man's pow'rs, an easier way deny'd;
And first bade mortals stir with art the plain,
Lest sloth should dim the splendors of his reign. 150
Till then to lands no limits were assign'd,
No marks; the ground unlabour'd by the hind.
To gratify each want enough was found,
While earth unask'd diffus'd her gifts around.
Jove the black serpent arm'd with deadly bane, 155
Taught wolves to prey, and heav'd with storms the main,
Shook
