what virtue is, the plain by slow degreeswith waving corn-crops shall to golden grow,from the wild briar shall hang the blushing grape,and stubborn oaks sweat honey-dew. Nathlessyet shall there lurk within of ancient wrongsome traces, bidding tempt the deep with ships,gird towns with walls, with furrows cleave the earth.Therewith a second Tiphys shall there be,her hero-freight a second Argo bear;new wars too shall arise, and once againsome great Achilles to some Troy be sent.Then, when the mellowing years have made thee man,no more shall mariner sail, nor pine-tree barkply traffic on the sea, but every landshall all things bear alike: the glebe no moreshall feel the harrow's grip, nor vine the hook;