With axes first they cleave the wine; and thence, By weight, the solid portions they dispense. From locks uncombed, and from the frozen beard, Long icicles depend, and crackling sounds are heard, Meantime perpetual sleet, and driving snow, Obscure the skies, and hang on herds below. The starving cattle perish in their stalls; Huge oxen stand inclosed in wintery walls Of snow congealed; whole herds are buried there Of mighty stags, and scarce their horns appear. The dexterous huntsman wounds not these afar With shafts or darts, or makes a distant war With dogs, or pitches toils to stop their flight, But close engages in unequal fight; And, while they strive in vain to make their way Through hills of snow, and pitifully bray, Assaults with dint of sword, or pointed spears, And homeward, on his back, the joyful burden bears. The men to subterranean caves retire, Secure from cold, and crowd the cheerful fire: With trunks of elms and oaks the hearth they load, Nor tempt the inclemency of heaven abroad. Their jovial nights in frolics and in play They pass, to drive the tedious hours away, And their cold stomachs with crowned goblets cheer Of windy cyder, and of barmy beer. Such are the cold Rhipæan race, and such The savage Scythian, and unwarlike Dutch, Where skins of beasts the rude barbarians wear, The spoils of foxes, and the furry bear. Is wool thy care? Let not thy cattle go Where bushes are, where burs and thistles grow; Nor in too rank a pasture let them feed; Then of the purest white select thy breed. Even though a snowy ram thou shalt behold, Prefer him not in haste for husband to thy fold: But search his mouth; and, if a swarthy tongue Is underneath his humid palate hung, Reject him, lest he darken all the flock, And substitute another from thy stock. 'Twas thus, with fleeces milky white, (if we May trust report,) Pan, god of Arcady, Did bribe thee, Cynthia; nor didst thou disdain, When called in woody shades, to cure a lover's pain. If milk be thy design, with plenteous hand Bring clover-grass; and from the marshy land Salt herbage for the foddering rack provide, To fill their bags, and swell the milky tide. These raise their thirst, and to the taste restore The savour of the salt, on which they fed before. Some, when the kids their dams too deeply drain, With gags and muzzles their soft mouths restrain. Their morning milk the peasants press at night; Their evening meal, before the rising light, To market bear; or sparingly they steep With seasoning salt, and stored for winter keep. Nor, last, forget thy faithful dogs; but feed With fattening whey the mastiffs' generous breed, And Spartan race, who, for the fold's relief, Will prosecute with cries the nightly thief, Repulse the prowling wolf, and hold at bay The mountain robbers rushing to the prey. With cries of hounds, thou may'st pursue the fear