I.

Sprung from an untainted race, Hardy father of the fold, Why, bounding o’er that craggy space, Roam’st thou desperately bold, Far from the refreshing gale, The verdant herbage of the mead, And sloping channel wont to feed Thy trough with springs that never fail? Yon caves with bleating lambkins ring, Come, depasture with the flock; Leave, O leave the dewy rock, Ere this ponderous stone I fling. Thee with speeding horns I call To the Cyclops’ lofty stall.