Advance by steps and sway the merc’less scythe;
Aye: how so natural the golden grain
Seems, aged-like, incline to earth again,
And, as the harvesters with rigid eye
Thrust forth the sickle most contemptuously,
How great the fall, but where the weapon’s cry? * * *
[198] The painter’s.
II.
While thus the muse compares the works of God
With that of man, twelve miles of country road