Forth from their gates each morn the nation flows;
And when pale twilight, from the wasted mead,
Bids the tir’d race, o’ercharg’d with spoil, recede,
They seek their roof, their drooping frame revive,
And shake with ceaseless hum the crowded hive.
Deep calm succeeds, each laid within his cell,
Where sleep and peace without a murmur dwell.
If tempests low’r, or blustering Eurus sound,
Prescient they creep their city walls around,
Sip the pure rill that near their portal springs,