The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea,Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow:Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are freeFrom winter's weight of snow.Wailing her Itys in that sad, sad strain,Builds the poor bird, reproach to after timeOf Cecrops' house, for bloody vengeance ta'enOn foul barbaric crime.The keepers of fat lambkins chant their lovesTo silvan reeds, all in the grassy lea,And pleasure Him who tends the flocks and grovesOf dark-leaved Arcady.It is a thirsty season, Virgil mine:But would you taste the grape's Calenian juice,Client of noble youths, to earn your wineSome nard you must produce.A tiny box of nard shall bring to lightThe cask that in Sulpician cellar lies:O, it can give new hopes, so fresh and bright,And gladden gloomy eyes.