Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/65

 Book II. Far from discordant arms the grateful ground

For you diffuses competence around.

What tho' no palace proud from portals wide

Pours forth of visitants the morning tide,

Tho' for no posts with tortoise-shell enrol'd

Ye sigh, no garments wanton'd o'er with gold;

Tho' the white wool no Tyrian poison soil,

Nor spice with fragrance taint the liquid oil;

Yet peace secure, yet days to guile unknown,

Leisure with plenty, these are all your own;

The low of herds, clear lakes, and breezy glade,

Grots, and soft sleeps beneath the bow'ry shade.

Nor want ye lawns, or thickets for the chace,

Or train'd to little a rough patient race,

Duty to Gods, and Parents: last with you

Astræa linger'd, ere she quite withdrew.

Me may the Nine, my first, my latest care,

With awful love whose mysteries I bear,

Lead thro' heav'n's radiant roads, the starry way;

The lunar labours, Sol's defects display;

Tell, by what force the swoll'n seas burst the mound,

Then in themselves subside: what rocks the ground;

Whence wintry Suns so rapid roll the light

Down to the main; what stays the loit'ring night. But