Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/65

 Th' Hyperborean tracks: his arrowy frosts, That pierce thro' flinty rocks, the Lappian flies, And burrows deep beneath the snowy world; A drear abode! from rose diffusing hours, That dance before the wheels of radiant day, Far, far remote; where, by the squalid light Of fetid oil inflam'd, sea-monsters' spume, Or fir-wood, glaring in the weeping vault, Twice three slow gloomy months with various ills Sullen he struggles; such the love of life! His lank and scanty herds around him press, As, hunger-stung, to gritty meal he grinds The bones of fish, or inward bark of trees, Their common sustenance; while ye, O Swains! Ye, happy at your ease, behold your sheep Feed on the open turf, or crowd the tilth, Where, thick among the greens, with busy mouths They scoop white turnips: little care is yours; Only at morning hour to interpose Dry food of oats, or hay, or brittle straw, The wat'ry juices of the bossy root Absorbing; or from noxious air to screen Your heavy teeming ewes with wattled fence Of furze or copse-wood in the lofty field, Which bleak ascends among the whistling winds: Or, if your sheep are of Silurian breed, Nightly to house them dry on fern or straw, Silk'ning their Fleeces. Ye nor rolling hut Nor watchful dog require, where never roar Of savage tears the air, where careless Night In balmy sleep lies lull'd, and only wakes To plenteous peace. Alas! o'er warmer zones Wild terror strides, their stubborn rocks are rent, Their mountains sink, their yawning caverns flame, And fiery torrents roll impetuous down,