First prunes his purple vine, then hastes to till
His garden, freshened by the chills of night,
Where many a grateful tribute cheers his sight;
The jasmine bent beneath his clustering bees,
The green retiring herb, the lofty trees,
That, gemmed with blooms and dew drops, on the air
Waft their sweet incense to the God of pray’r.
But noon advances, and he drives his flocks
Where spots of verdure brighten ’mid the rocks;
There spends the day; and, far above, inhales