Hangs forth in heaven the signs of grievous war.
Nor scathe nor famine on the righteous prey;
Feasts, strewn by earth, employ their easy day:
Rich are their mountain oaks: the topmost trees
With clustering acorns full, the trunks with hiving bees.
Burthen’d with fleece their panting flocks: the race
Of woman soft [59]reflects the father’s face:
Still flourish they, nor tempt with ships the main;
The fruits of earth are pour’d from every plain.
But o’er the wicked race, to whom belong