Snakes, thirst, burning sand The brave man welcomes, and the patient breast Finds happiness in labour.

By its cost Courage is sweeter; and this Libyan land Such cloud of ills can furnish as might make Men flee unshamed." 'Twas thus that Cato spake, Kindling the torch of valour and the love Of toil: then reckless of his fate he strode The desert path from which was no return: And Libya ruled his destinies, to shut His sacred name within a narrow tomb.
One-third of all the world, (12) if fame we trust, Is Libya; yet by winds and sky she yields Some part to Europe; for the shores of Nile No more than Scythian Tanais are remote From furthest Gades, where with bending coast, Yielding a place to Ocean, Europe parts From Afric shores.

Yet falls the larger world To Asia only.

From the former two Issues the Western wind; but Asia's right Touches the Southern limits and her left The Northern tempest's home; and of the East She's mistress to the rising of the Sun.
All that is fertile of the Afric lands Lies to the west, but even here abound No wells of water: though the Northern wind, Infrequent, leaving us with skies serene, Falls there in showers.

Not gold nor wealth of brass It yields the seeker: pure and unalloyed Down to its lowest depths is Libyan soil.
Yet citron forests to Maurusian tribes Were riches, had they known; but they, content, Lived 'neath the shady foliage, till gleamed The axe of Rome amid the virgin grove, To bring from furthest limits of the world Our banquet tables and the fruit they bear.