Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/67

 The ancient wells, deep sunk by toil immense, Toil of the patriarchs, with sublime intent Themselves and long posterity to serve. There, at the public hour of sultry noon, They share the bev'rage, when to wat'ring come, And grateful umbrage, all the tribes around, And their lean flocks, whose various bleatings fill The echoing caverns: then is absent none, Fair nymph or shepherd, each inspiring each To wit, and song, and dance, and active feats; In the same rustic scene, where Jacob won Fair Rachel's bosom, when a rock's vast weight From the deep dark-mouth'd well his strength remov'd, And to her circling sheep refreshment gave. Such are the perils, such the toils, of life, In foreign climes. But speed thy flight, my Muse! Swift turns the year, and our unnumber'd flocks On Fleeces overgrown uneasy lie. Now, jolly Swains! the harvest of your cares Prepare to reap, and seek the sounding caves Of high Brigantium, where, by ruddy flames, Vulcan's strong sons, with nervous arm, around The steady anvil and the glaring mass Clatter their heavy hammers down by turns, Flatt'ning the steel: from their rough hands receive The sharpen'd instrument that from the flock Severs the Fleece. If verdant elder spreads Her silver flow'rs; if humble daisies yield To yellow crow-foot, and luxuriant grass, Gay shearing-time approaches. First, howe'er, Drive to the double fold, upon the brim Of a clear river, gently drive the flock, And plunge them one by one into the flood: Plung'd in the flood, not long the struggler sinks, With his white flakes that glisten thro' the tide;