Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/32

 20 Then wines are mell'west; fat lambs crop the glade,

Then slumbers please, and hills grow brown with shade.

Ceres let all your rustic youth adore:

For her with milk and soft wine sprinkled o'er

Heap honey'd combs; and, while th' attendant throng

In glad procession raise the choral song,

Courting the Goddess to their roofs with cries,

Round the fresh fruits thrice lead the sacrifice:

Nor with rash hook dare one the ripe stalk wound,

Till, with the twisted oak his temples bound,

In uncouth measure first to Ceres' praise,

Frisking he beat the ground, and chant his lays.

By certain signs, so wills great Jove, the swain

Predicts heats, chilly winds, and rattling rain,

Reads in the monthly moon a sure presage,

And sees the marks of Auster's sinking rage.

Nor wants the Grazier tokens, when to call

His straggling cattle near the shelt'ring stall.

Strait, with the rising tempest, by degrees

Or heaves the tremulous surface of the seas,

And o'er the region of the hilly ground

Breaks a dry crackle; or afar resound

The billow-beaten shores, while swelling near

The forest's leafy rustle fills the ear. Then