Then minister the browze with bounteous hand, And open let thy stacks all winter stand. But, when the western winds with vital power Call forth the tender grass and budding flower, Then, at the last, produce in open air Both flocks; and send them to their summer fare. Before the sun while Hesperus appears, First let them sip from herbs the pearly tears Of morning dews, and after break their fast On green-sward ground--a cool and grateful taste. But, when the day's fourth hour has drawn the dews, And the sun's sultry heat their thirst renews; When creaking grashoppers on shrubs complain, Then lead them to their watering-troughs again. In summer's heat, some bending valley find, Closed from the sun, but open to the wind; Or seek some ancient oak, whose arms extend In ample breadth, thy cattle to defend, Or solitary grove, or gloomy glade, To shield them with its venerable shade. Once more to watering lead; and feed again When the low sun is sinking to the main, When rising Cynthia sheds her silver dews, And the cool evening-breeze the meads renews, When linnets fill the woods with tuneful sound, And hollow shores the halcyon's voice rebound. Why should my Muse enlarge on Libyan swains, Their scattered cottages, and ample plains, Where oft the flocks without a leader stray, } Or through continued deserts take their way, } And, feeding, add the length of night to day? } Whole months they wander, grazing as they go; Nor folds nor hospitable harbour know: Such an extent of plains, so vast a space Of wilds unknown, and of untasted grass, Allures their eyes: the shepherd last appears, And with him all his patrimony bears, His house and household gods, his trade of war, His bow and quiver, and his trusty cur. Thus, under heavy arms, the youth of Rome Their long laborious marches overcome, Cheerly their tedious travels undergo, And pitch their sudden camp before the foe. Not so the Scythian shepherd tends his fold, Nor he who bears in Thrace the bitter cold, Nor he who treads the bleak Mæotian strand, Or where proud Ister rolls his yellow sand. Early they stall their flocks and herds; for there No grass the fields, no leaves the forests, wear: The frozen earth lies buried there, below } A hilly heap, seven cubits deep in snow; } And all the west allies of stormy Boreas blow. } The sun from far peeps with a sickly face, Too weak the clouds and mighty fogs to chase, When up the skies he shoots his rosy head, Or in the ruddy ocean seeks his bed. Swift rivers are with sudden ice constrained; And studded wheels are on its back sustained, A hostry now for waggons, which before Tall ships of burden on its bosom bore. The brazen cauldrons with the frost are flawed; The garment, stiff with ice, at hearths is thawed;