Not thus the tribesOf Scythia by the far Maeotic wave,Where turbid Ister whirls his yellow sands,And Rhodope stretched out beneath the poleComes trending backward. There the herds they keepClose-pent in byres, nor any grass is seenUpon the plain, nor leaves upon the tree:But with snow-ridges and deep frost afarHeaped seven ells high the earth lies featureless:Still winter? still the north wind's icy breath!Nay, never sun disparts the shadows pale,Or as he rides the steep of heaven, or dipsIn ocean's fiery bath his plunging car.Quick ice-crusts curdle on the running stream,And iron-hooped wheels the water's back now bears,To broad wains opened, as erewhile to ships;Brass vessels oft asunder burst, and clothesStiffen upon the wearers; juicy winesThey cleave with axes; to one frozen massWhole pools are turned; and on their untrimmed beardsStiff clings the jagged icicle. MeanwhileAll heaven no less is filled with falling snow;The cattle perish: oxen's mighty framesStand island-like amid the frost, and stagsIn huddling herds, by that strange weight benumbed,Scarce top the surface with their antler-points.These with no hounds they hunt, nor net with toils,Nor scare with terror of the crimson plume;But, as in vain they breast the opposing block,Butcher them, knife in hand, and so dispatchLoud-bellowing, and with glad shouts hale them home.Themselves in deep-dug caverns undergroundDwell free and careless; to their hearths they heaveOak-logs and elm-trees whole, and fire them there,There play the night out, and in festive gleeWith barm and service sour the wine-cup mock.So 'neath the seven-starred Hyperborean wainThe folk live tameless, buffeted with blastsOf Eurus from Rhipaean hills, and wrapTheir bodies in the tawny fells of beasts.