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.