Bids loose thy horses from their toil;
Not yet, as day fades into night,
Sounds forth the trumpets' evening call.
The plowman stands in dumb amaze,800
With oxen still unspent with toil,
To see the welcome supper hour
So quickly come. But what, O sun,
Has driven thee from thy heavenly course?
What cause from their accustomed way
Has turned thy steeds? Is war essayed