Part of Virgil's First Georgick

First let thy altars smoke with sacred fire, Thy early labours the just Gods require. Let Ceres' blessings usher-in the year, To give an omen to thy future care. With sacrifice adorn her grassy shrine, With milk, with honey, and with flowing wine. Then go, the mighty Goddess to adore, When Spring buds forth, and Winter is no more. Then well-fed lambs thy plenteous tables load, And mellow wines give appetite to food. Whilst the cool shade by small refreshing streams Invite soft sleep, and gentle pleasing dreams, The rustic youth the Goddess should implore To bless their fruits, and to increase their store. Thrice let the sacrifice in triumph led Crown the new offspring of her fruitful bed. A joyful choir shall sing her praises round, And with unequal motions beat the ground. Whilst oaken branches on their temples twine, To shew the better use of corn and wine. The Goddess, thus appeas'd, will bend her ear, And with a plenteous harvest will reward your care. The certain seasons of the year to know Great Jove has taught us, and from whence they flow, Droughts, rains, and winds, their certain signs forego. Those messengers of Fate provide the way, To give the signal of a gloomy day. The moon her tokens constantly fulfils, And with her beams points out th' approaching ills. Her waning orb puts on a various form, To give the sign of an impending storm. When South-winds rise, the herdsmen justly fear, And seek a shelter when the tempest 's near. First from a gentle blast the winds arise, Whose infant voice in whispering murmurs flies, Then with loud clamours fills the troubled skies. By small degrees advanc'd, it stronger grows, Till every point each other does oppose. Then through the jarring zones it frets and roars, And lifts the swelling billows to the shores. Vast watery mountains roll upon the sand, And angry surges beat the trembling land. A harsh, shrill noise the echoing caverns fills, And strikes the ear from the resounding hills; Whose reverend tops, with aged pine-trees crown'd, Rock with the wind, and tremble with the sound. The threatening surges hardly can forbear The tatter'd vessel, while the seamen fear Each rolling billow should their last appear. The frighten'd native of the troubled waves His long-accustom'd habitation leaves. Now born aloft a winged army soar, To seck for safety on a calmer shore. The moor-hen, conscious of the tempest near, Plays on the sand, and so prevents her fear. The hern forsakes his ancient marshy bed, And towers to heaven, while clouds bedew his head; Sometimes he 's met by a descending star, Which warns the tempest rushing from afar. The headlong planet glides in fiery streams, And shoots through darkness with its radiant beams: It cuts the shadows with a train of light, And makes a medley of the day and night. A sportive whirlwind lifts the moving sand, In mystic circles dancing on the land. Now wanton feathers whiten all the flood; And sapless leaves fly o'er the shaken wood, At distance blackening in a dusky cloud. But when a new-fledg'd storm comes blustering forth, And quits the thundering regions of the North: When East and West in distant poles conspire, Uniting rage, to swell the deluge higher, With rapid streams the full-charg'd channels flow, Collecting forces as they farther go. Th' unruly tide no sturdy banks control, O'er unknown plains the furious torrents roll. The reapers mourn, to see the deluge bear The long-expected labours of the year.