Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/58

 46 To your scorcht trees no arts can life restore;

In vain you cut them, they return no more,

Nor rise renew'd in verdure, once their own;

Unhurt the steril olive stands alone.

Aw'd by the counsels of the wise forbear

To stir the ground, while Boreas chills the air:

In vain you set; fast-bound by Winter's hand

No root can fasten in the frozen land.

Then plant your vines, when in the youthful year

Loath'd by long adders the white birds appear;

Or when the cold autumnal heats succeeds,

Nor yet has Winter felt Sol's panting steeds.

In spring the groves, in spring the woods delight,

In spring swoll'n lands the genial seeds invite.

Then on his glad Wife's breast in fertile show'rs

Himself th' all-potent Father Ether pours;

Mixt with the Mother in a vast embrace

The mighty Sire refreshes all her race.

The lone brakes echo with the plumy quire,

And on set days herds burn with fierce desire:

Earth bounteous teems; the fields their bosom bare

To the kind warmth of Zephyr's balmy air:

A subtile moisture wide prevails: the land

Dares to new suns her verdant vest expand: Nor