Hence, above all, what may his native land
Of labour, store, nay, of his life demand!
True Roman, few as he of Rome so proud;
None readier to give her goods and blood!
Meantime no season comes without its call;
Not one would he away; he loves them all—
Cries between laugh and wail from lambs new-born,
Sheaves in the close-packed barn of golden corn,
Groans of content from home-returning sows,
The woodlands’ crackling thuds of severed boughs,