Betwixt the midft and thefe, the gods affign'd
Two habitable feats for human kind:
And cross their limits cut a floping way,
Which the twelve figns in beauteous order sway.
Two poles turn round the globe; one seen to rife 330
O'er Scythian hills, and one in Libyan skies.
The first fublime in heaven, the last is whirl'd
Below the regions of the nether world.
Around our pole the fpiry Dragon glides,
And like a winding ftream the Bears divides;
The Lefs and Greater, who by Fate's decree
Abhor to dive beneath the southern fea;
There, as they fay, perpetual night is found
In filence brooding on th' unhappy ground:
Or when Aurora leaves our northern sphere,
She lights the downward heaven, and rifes there.
And when on us fhe breathes the living light,
Red vefper kindles there the tapers of the night.
From hence uncertain seasons we may know;
And when to reap the grain, and when to sow;
Or when to fell the furzes; when 'tis meet
To spread the flying canvass for the fleet.
Obferve what stars arife or disappear;
And the four quarters of the rolling year.
But when cold weather, and continued rain,
The labouring husband in his house restrain,
Let him forecaft his work with timely care,
Which elfe is huddled when the fkies are fair:
Then let him mark the sheep, or whet the shining
Or hollow trees for boats, or number o'er
His facks, or measure his increasing store;
Or fharpen stakes, or head the forks, or twine
The fallow twigs to tye the straggling vine;
Or wicker baskets weave, or air the corn,
Or grinded grain betwixt two marbles turn.
No laws, divine or human, can restrain
From neceffary works the labouring fwain.
Ev'n holy-days and feasts permiffion yield,
To float the meadows, or to fence the field,
To fire the brambles, fnare the birds, and fteep 365
In wholfome water-falls the woolly sheep.
And oft the drudging ass is driven, with toil,
To neighbouring towns with apples and with oil:
Returning late, and loaden home with gain
Of barter'd pitch, and hand-mills for the grain. 370
The lucky days, in each revolving moon,
For labour choose: the fifth be fure to fhun:
That gave the Furies and pale Pluto birth,
And arm'd, against the skies, the fons of earth.
With mountains piled on mountains, thrice they
To scale the steepy battlements of Jove:
And thrice his lightning and red thunder play'd,
And their demolish'd works in ruin laid.
The feventh is, next the tenth, the best to join
Young oxen to the yoke, and plant the vine.
Then, weavers, stretch your stays upon the weft:
The ninth is good for travel, bad for theft.
Some works in dead of night are better done;
Or when the morning dew prevents the fun.
Parch'd meads and stubble mow by Phoebe's light, 385
Which both require the coolness of the night;
For moisture then abounds, and pearly rains
Defcend in filence to refresh the plains.
The wife and husband equally conspire
To work by night, and rake the winter fire:
He sharpens torches in the glimmering room;
She fhoots the flying fhuttle through the loom :
Or boils in kettles muft of wine, and skims
With leaves, the dregs that overflow the brims.
And till the watchful cock awakes the day,
She fings to drive the tedious hours away.
But in warm weather, when the skies are clear,
By day-light reap the product of the year:
And in the fun your golden grain display,
And thrash it out, and winnow it by day.
Plough naked, swain, and naked fow the land,
For lazy winter numbs the labouring hand.
In genial winter, fwains enjoy their store,
Forget their hardships, and recruit for more.
The farmer to full bowls invites his friends,
And what he got with pains, with pleasure spends.
So failors, when escap'd from stormy feas,
First crown their veffels, then indulge their case.
Yet that's the proper time to thrash the wood
For maft of oak, your fathers' homely food.
To gather laurel-berries, and the spoil
Of bloody myrtles, and to prefs your oil,
For stalking cranes to fet the guileful fnare,
T'inclose the ftags in toils, and hunt the hare.
With Balearic flings, or Gnofian bow,
To perfecute from far the flying doe.
Then, when the fleecy skies new clothe the wood,
And cakes of rustling ice came rolling down the flood.
Now fing we ftormy ftars, when autumn weighs
The year, and adds to nights, and fhortens days; 420
And funs declining fhine with feeble rays:
What cares must then attend the toiling fwain ;
Or when the lowering fpring, with lavish rain,
Beats down the flender ftem and bearded grain,
While yet the head is green, or, lightly fwell'd
With milky moisture, overlooks the field!
Ev'n when the farmer, now fecure of fear,
Sends in the fwains to fpoil the finish'd year:
Ev'n while the reaper fills his greedy hands,
And binds the golden fheaves in brittle bands:
Oft have I feen a fudden ftorm arife,
From all the warring winds that fweep the skies :
The heavy harvest from the root is torn,
And whirl'd aloft the lighter ftubble borne;
With fuch a force the flying rack is driven,
And fuch a winter wears the face of heaven:
And oft whole fheets defcend of fluicy rain,
Suck'd by the spongy clouds from off the main :
The lofty skies at once come pouring down,
The promis'd crop and golden labours drown.
The dikes are fill'd, and with a roaring found
The rifing rivers float the nether ground;
And rocks the bellowing voice of boiling feas re-
bound.
The Father of the Gods his glory shrouds,
Involv'd in tempefts, and a night of clouds.
And from the middle darkness flashing out,
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about.
Earth feels the motions of her angry God,
Her entrails tremble, and her mountains nod;
And flying beafts in forests seek abode :
Deep horror feizes every human breast,
Their pride is humbled, and their fear confefs'd:
While he from high his rolling thunder throws,
And fires the mountains with repeated blows :
The rocks are from their old foundations rent;
The winds redouble, and the rains augment:
The waves on heaps are dash'd against the shore,
And now the woods, and now the billows roar.
In fear of this, obferve the starry figns, Where Saturn houses, and where Hermes joins. 460 But first to heaven thy due devotions pay,
And annual gifts on Ceres' altars lay.
When winter's rage abates, when chearful hours
Awake the spring, the fpring awakes the flowers.
On the green turf thy careless limbs difplay,
And celebrate the mighty mother's day.
For then the hills with pleasing fhades are crown'd,
And fleeps are sweeter on the filken ground:
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