Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/97

 Book III. Frantic and fell, ere life's last pow'rs were spent,

With their bar'd teeth their mangled members rent.

The steaming steer, as at the plough he strains,

Sinks, and the ground with gory foam distains,

And sends his last deep sighs: the Rustic strait

The bullock, pensive for his fellow's fate,

Unyoking, quits the place, opprest with care,

And in th' unfinish'd furrow leaves the share.

No more in velvet meads a charm he finds,

Or grove's green umbrage, or the stream, that winds

O'er rocks, fast-trickling to the plain, more clear

Than amber: flaccid, lo! his flanks appear;

Stiff in their sockets flare his beamless balls,

Drooping to earth his nerveless neck low falls.

Say, to what end their services, their toil?

Avails it, that they've turn'd the stubborn soil?

No wines, no rich repasts e'er fir'd their blood;

Their drink, clear springs, and self-refining flood;

Leaves and green herbage are their simple fare,

And their sound sleeps unbroken by a care.

Then, and then only, in these regions, kine

Fail'd for the use of Juno's rites divine,

And buffaloes ill-pair'd, as Fame has told,

To the tall fanes the sacred chariots roll'd. Hence