12
To Phrygia's shrines, and tower-crown'd Cybele:
On move the dragon coils—their ruler she—
And track the parted clouds: each guiding rein
Their foaming jaws with harmless venom stain.
With crested front and spotted back they go,
And scales where green and gold commingled glow.
Now soaring high they skim the air, and now
Descending low the nether earth they plough.
Touched by those genial wheels, the teeming earth,
Their track concealing, gives her produce birth;
Where'er they glide, the yellow harvests shine,
And grace the progress of the car divine.
Now scarce is Etna seen; and far behind
Trinacria lessens, dim and undefined.
How oft, alas! do tears her cheek bedew!
How oft, turned backward, on that fading view
Prescient of evil does she gaze, and say—
Farewell, loved land, than heavenly realms of day
More precious to my soul! from thee I part,
To thee I trust the treasure of my heart:
And to reward and pay thee, for thy care,
Spontaneous harvests thy rich soil shall bear,
No plough be needed—and the wondering swain—
While rest his oxen—revel mid the grain.
