See!

  See! as he smokes beneath the stubborn share,

  The bull drops, vomiting foam-dabbled gore,

  And heaves his latest groans. Sad goes the swain,

  Unhooks the steer that mourns his fellow's fate,

  And in mid labour leaves the plough-gear fast.

  Nor tall wood's shadow, nor soft sward may stir

  That heart's emotion, nor rock-channelled flood,

  More pure than amber speeding to the plain:

  But see! his flanks fail under him, his eyes

  Are dulled with deadly torpor, and his neck

  Sinks to the earth with drooping weight. What now

  Besteads him toil or service? to have turned

  The heavy sod with ploughshare? And yet these

  Ne'er knew the Massic wine-god's baneful boon,

  Nor twice replenished banquets: but on leaves

  They fare, and virgin grasses, and their cups

  Are crystal springs and streams with running tired,

  Their healthful slumbers never broke by care.