Then close on autumn's steps will winter stern
With blustering winds and chilling rains return.
Pity the wretch who shelterless remains,
And the keen blast—half-fed—half-clad—sustains.
The prudent husbandman, while autumn lasts,
His precious seed on the broad furrow casts,
And fearless marks the marshall'd Cranes on high,
Seeking in southern climes a milder sky. 360
Not so the idle farmer, who delays,
And trusts to treacherous winter's shorten’d days.
He hears their screams and clanging wings with fear,
Prognostics sure of frost-bound winter near.
When Autumn's days are nearly past away,
And Winter hastens to assume his sway,
Mark if the Kine and Sheep at eventide
Toss up their horned heads; with nostril wide,
Imbibe the northern breeze, and furious beat
The echoing meadows with their cloven feet; 370
For tyrant Winter comes with icy hand,
Heaping his snowy ridges on the land,
Blasting Pomona's hopes with shriveling frost,
While Ceres mourns her golden treasure lost.
No grateful sight to husbandmen appear
One or more Comets, with their blazing hair—
Forerunners of a parch'd and barren year.
