And armed, against the skies, the sons of earth. With mountains piled on mountains, thrice they strove To scale the steepy battlements of Jove; And thrice his lightning and red thunder played, And their demolished works in ruin laid. The seventh 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 sun. Parched meads and stubble mow by Phœbe's light, Which both require the coolness of the night; For moisture then abounds, and pearly rains Descend in silence 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 shoots the flying shuttle through the loom, Or boils in kettles must of wine, and skims, With leaves, the dregs that overflow the brims: And, till the watchful cock awakes the day, She sings, 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 sun your golden grain display, And thrash it out, and winnow it by day. Plough naked, swain, and naked sow the land; For lazy winter numbs the labouring hand. In genial winter, swains 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 sailors, when escaped from stormy seas, First crown their vessels, then indulge their ease. Yet that's the proper time to thrash the wood For mast of oak, your fathers' homely food; To gather laurel-berries, and the spoil Of bloody myrtles, and to press your oil; For stalking cranes to set the guileful snare; T'inclose the stags in toils, and hunt the hare; With Balearic slings, or Gnossian bow, To persecute from far the flying doe, Then, when the fleecy skies new clothe the wood, And cakes of rustling ice come rolling down the flood. Now sing we stormy stars, when autumn weighs } The year, and adds to nights, and shortens days, } And suns declining shine with feeble rays: } What cares must then attend the toiling swain; } Or when the low'ring spring, with lavish rain, } Beats down the slender stem and bearded grain, } While yet the head is green, or, lightly swelled With milky moisture, overlooks the field. Even when the farmer, now secure of fear, Sends in the swains to spoil the finished year, Even while the reaper fills his greedy hands, And binds the golden sheaves in brittle bands, Oft have I seen a sudden storm arise, From all the warring winds that sweep the skies: The heavy harvest from the root is torn, And whirled aloft the lighter stubble borne: