I.

The vine-clad hill he lightly scales, Where [2]tall the frequent poplars rise, From branch to branch assiduous trails The pendent clusters rich supplies; And cautious prunes the weak, the useless shoot, Engrafting healthier boughs, that promise fruit.-- Then his arms serenely folding, And the smiling scene beholding, Marks, as the fertile valley winds away, His Flocks and lowing Herds, in ample numbers stray.