And clothe low cabins with a roof of green;
They bade fierce bulls the servile yoke to bear;
And wheels to move a wain were theirs, I ween.

Our wild fruit was forgot, when apple-boughs
Bore grafts, and thirsty orchards (art divine!)
Were freshed by ditching; while with sweet carouse
The wine-press flowed, and water wed with wine.

Our fields bore harvests, when the dog-star flame
Bade Summer of her tawny tress be shorn;
From fields of Spring the bees, with busy game,
Stored well their frugal combs the live-long morn.

'Twas some field-tiller from his plough at rest,
First hummed his homely words to numbers true,
Or trilled his pipe of straw in songs addressed
To his blithe woodland gods, with worship due.

Some rustic ruddied with vermilion clay
First led, O Bacchus, thy swift choric throng,
And won for record of thy festal day
Some fold's chief goat, fit meed of frolic song!

It was our rustic boys whose virgin band
New coronals of Spring's sweet flowrets made
For offering to the gods who bless our land,
Which on the Lares' hallowed heads were laid.

Our country-lasses find a pleasing care