No delay:The self-same hour he hies him forth to doHis mother's bidding: to the shrine he came,The appointed altars reared, and thither ledFour chosen bulls of peerless form and bulk,With kine to match, that never yoke had known;Then, when the ninth dawn had led in the day,To Orpheus sent his funeral dues, and soughtThe grove once more. But sudden, strange to tellA portent they espy: through the oxen's flesh,Waxed soft in dissolution, hark! there humBees from the belly; the rent ribs overboilIn endless clouds they spread them, till at lastOn yon tree-top together fused they cling,And drop their cluster from the bending boughs.

So sang I of the tilth of furrowed fields,Of flocks and trees, while Caesar's majestyLaunched forth the levin-bolts of war by deepEuphrates, and bare rule o'er willing folkThough vanquished, and essayed the heights of heaven.I Virgil then, of sweet ParthenopeThe nursling, wooed the flowery walks of peaceInglorious, who erst trilled for shepherd-wightsThe wanton ditty, and sang in saucy youthThee, Tityrus, 'neath the spreading beech tree's shade.