Here herds of oxen march, erect and bold, Rear high their horns, and seem to low in gold, And speed to meadows on whose sounding shores A rapid torrent through the rushes roars: Four golden herdsmen as their guardians stand, And nine sour dogs complete the rustic band. Two lions rushing from the wood appear’d; And seized a bull, the master of the herd: He roar’d: in vain the dogs, the men withstood; They tore his flesh, and drank his sable blood. The dogs (oft cheer’d in vain) desert the prey, Dread the grim terrors, and at distance bay.