They, trusting to the Gods, plant not, or plough,
But earth unsow'd, untill'd, brings forth for them 125
All fruits, wheat, barley, and the vinous grape
Large cluster'd, nourish'd by the show'rs of Jove.
No councils they convene, no laws contrive,
But in deep caverns dwell, found on the heads
Of lofty mountains, judging each supreme 130
His wife and children, heedless of the rest.
In front of the Cyclopean haven lies
A level island, not adjoining close
Their land, nor yet remote, woody and rude.
There, wild goats breed numberless, by no foot 135
Of man molested; never huntsman there,
Inured to winter's cold and hunger, roams
The dreary woods, or mountain-tops sublime;
No fleecy flocks dwell there, nor plough is known,
But the unseeded and unfurrow'd soil, 140
Year after year a wilderness by man
Untrodden, food for blatant goats supplies.
For no ships crimson-prow'd the Cyclops own,
Nor naval artizan is there, whose toil
Might furnish them with oary barks, by which 145
Subsists all distant commerce, and which bear
Man o'er the Deep to cities far remote
Who might improve the peopled isle, that seems
Not steril in itself, but apt to yield,
In their due season, fruits of ev'ry kind. 150
For stretch'd beside the hoary ocean lie
Green
