Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/124

 112 Scoopt in a mountain's side lies a vast cave,

Where by the driving blast the frequent wave

Dashing splits back to many a winding bay,

Recess to suff'rers on the watry way:

Within, screen'd by a rock's o'er-arching height,

The God retires: here, shaded from the light,

The Nymph in ambush seats her son, and shrouds

Herself at distance in surrounding clouds.

On India's sons now stream'd fierce Sirius' blaze,

And half the Globe had felt Sol's sultry rays;

Parcht was the grass; to mud the rivers turn'd

In thirsty channels to the bottom burn'd:

'Twas then the Prophet, rising from the wave,

Sought the cool shelter of his custom'd cave;

Scattering the briny dew the wat'ry throng

About him gambol'd, as he past along:

The Phocæ, basking in the sunny ray,

Stretcht diverse on the strand reposing lay:

He, (like some herdman of the hills, who calls

Back from the field his cattle to their stalls,

The night-star twinkling, while the lambs around

Bleat, and the wolves grow keener at the sound;)

The midmost on a rock, his scaly train

Tells, not unnoted by the watchful swain: Scarce