Gently thrilled the brize-stung heifer[n3]
With his procreant touch, and breathed
Godlike virtue on her womb.
Where on Earth should we hope refuge
On more friendly ground than this,
In our hands these green boughs bearing
Wreathed with precatory wool?[f4]
Ye blissful gods supremely swaying[n4]
Land and city, and lucid streams;
And ye in sepulchres dark, severely