Zephyrus, lurking in the winding vale: “Gracious father of the spring, thou who ever rulest over my meads with errant breeze and bringest rain upon the summer lands with thine unceasing breath, behold this company of Nymphs and Jove’s tall daughters who deign to sport them in my meadows. Be present to bless, I pray. Grant that now all the trees be thick with newly-grown fruit, that fertile Hybla may be jealous and admit her paradise surpassed. All the sweet airs of Panchaea’s incense-bearing woods, all the honied odours of Hydaspes’ distant stream, all the spices which from furthest fields the long-lived Phoenix gathers, seeking new birth from wished for death--spread thou all these through my veins and with generous breath refresh my country. May I be worthy to be plundered by divine fingers and goddesses seek to be decked with my garlands.” So spake she, and Zephyrus shook his wings adrip with fresh nectar and drenches the ground with their life-giving dew. Wheresoe’er he flies spring’s brilliance follows. The fields grow lush with verdure and heaven’s dome shines cloudless above them. He paints the bright roses red, the hyacinths blue and the sweet violets purple. What girdles of Babylon, meet cincture of a royal breast, are adorned with such varied jewels? What fleece so dyed in the rich juice of the murex where stand the brazen towers of Tyre? Not the wings of Juno’s own bird display such colouring. Not thus do the many-changing hues of the rainbow span young winter’s sky when in curved arch its rainy path glows green amid the parting clouds. Even more lovely than the flowers is the country. The plain, with gentle swell and gradual slopes, rose into a hill; issuing from the living rock gushing * * * * * Page 326