The vine-clad hill he lightly scales, Where [2]tall the frequent poplars rise, From branch to branch assiduous trails The pendent clusters rich supplies; And cautious prunes the weak, the useless shoot, Engrafting healthier boughs, that promise fruit.-- Then his arms serenely folding, And the smiling scene beholding, Marks, as the fertile valley winds away, His Flocks and lowing Herds, in ample numbers stray.
Then to the warm bank below, Yellow with the morning-ray, And sees his shelter'd hives in even row, And hears their hum mix with the linnet's lay. Recent from the crystal springs Many a vessel pure he brings, In them, from all the waxen cells to drain The fragrant essence rich of flow'ry dale and plain.
On the river's shady side White his gather'd flock appears, And, plung'd into the flashing tide, Their curl'd and snowy fleece he shears; But when, 'mid laughing fields diffusive spread, Majestic Autumn rears her placid head, Wreath'd with wheaten garlands yellow, Bearing various fruitage mellow, How gladly from the trees, that loaded stand, Shakes he the ripen'd pears, engrafted by his hand.
Or his swelling grapes, that vie With the fleece of Tyrian stain! Such precious gifts his grateful cares supply To thee, Protector of his wide domain, Bounteous Sylvanus!--and to thee, The garden's watchful Deity; Beneath your favoring power he little cares Who wields the Lictor's rod, or who the fasces bears.
In sultry noon's oppressive ray, Beneath the holme, of ample shade, His listless limbs he loves to lay On herbage, matted in the glade; Hears down the steeps the white rills dashing play, Till under the long grass they purl away; While, on wing of swift vibration, Murmuring range the honied nation, And the sweet stock-dove, the thick boughs among, His dewy slumber courts with her complaining song.
Loud when wintry winds arise, And the feeble race appal, While o'er the earth, from dim and thicken'd skies, The flaky snows in white profusion fall, Then the sylvan chase he seeks;-- Lo! furious from the thicket breaks The gnashing Boar!--Flies he, or stands at bay, Into the circling toils the staunch dogs drive the prey.
When thro' the clear, and sparkling air, Fleet the pointed darts of frost, The filmy nets, now here, now there, For thievish birds, are lightly toss'd; Or, plac'd with silent heed, the wily snares, To lure the stranger-cranes, and timid hares. Rich viands they, whose pleasing flavor Crown his board, reward his labor. In those convivial hours the Heart forgets Its vain tumultuous hopes, and all its fond regrets.