Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/34

 22 Oft has the ant, working her narrow road,

Brought out her eggs from her recluse abode,

And heav'n's bow drunk; and an unnumber'd croud

Of ravens with close pinions clatter'd loud,

Quitting their food: now fowl of wat'ry kind,

That in Cayster's lakes with bill declin'd

Pry o'er the meads of Asius, largely lave

Their backs, besprinkled with the dashing wave,

Now dare the waters, now the surface sweep,

And idly wet their plumage in the deep.

Then the rook calls the rain in lengthen'd tone,

And paces on the sandy waste alone.

Nor less the damsels, in nocturnal hour

Working their wool, foretel the coming show'r,

As the lamp burns, when sputt'ring sparkles round

Dart from the oil, and fungusses abound.

Nor from less certain tokens are foreseen

Days without show'rs, and an expanse serene:

For then the stars no languid lustre lend,

Nor does the Moon the vault of heav'n ascend

Glimm'ring with borrow'd beams, nor to the eye

Clouds of dun hue roll fleecy thro' the sky:

Nor do the birds, by Thetis lov'd, expand

To the warm sun their wings along the strand; Nor