These roving mists, that constant now begin
To smoak along the hilly country, these,
With mighty rains, the skill'd in nature say,
The mountain-cisterns fill, those grand reserves
Of water, scoop'd among the hollow rocks;
Whence gush the streams, the ceaseless fountains play,
And their unfailing stores the rivers draw.
But is this equal to the vast effect?
Is thus the  fill'd? the rapid
The broad  all th' unnumber'd floods,
That large refresh the fair-divided earth;
And, in the rage of summer, never cease
To send a thundering torrent to the main?