The food that suits it most; so does each clime. 300
Far in the horrid realms of winter, where
Th’ establish’d ocean heaps a monstrous waste
Of shining rocks and mountains to the pole;
There lives a hardy race, whose plainest wants
Relentless earth, their cruel step-mother, 305
Regards not. On the waste of iron fields,
Untam’d, untractable, no harvests wave:
Pomona hates them, and the clownish God
Who tends the garden. In this frozen world