The slips once planted, yet remains to cleaveThe earth about their roots persistently,And toss the cumbrous hoes, or task the soilWith burrowing plough-share, and ply up and downYour labouring bullocks through the vineyard's midst,Then too smooth reeds and shafts of whittled wand,And ashen poles and sturdy forks to shape,Whereby supported they may learn to mount,Laugh at the gales, and through the elm-tops winFrom story up to story.
Now while yetThe leaves are in their first fresh infant growth,Forbear their frailty, and while yet the boughShoots joyfully toward heaven, with loosened reinLaunched on the void, assail it not as yetWith keen-edged sickle, but let the leaves aloneBe culled with clip of fingers here and there.But when they clasp the elms with sturdy trunksErect, then strip the leaves off, prune the boughs;Sooner they shrink from steel, but then put forthThe arm of power, and stem the branchy tide.
Hedges too must be woven and all beastsBarred entrance, chiefly while the leaf is youngAnd witless of disaster; for therewith,Beside harsh winters and o'erpowering sun,Wild buffaloes and pestering goats for ayBesport them, sheep and heifers glut their greed.Nor cold by hoar-frost curdled, nor the proneDead weight of summer upon the parched crags,So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-biteOf their hard tooth, whose gnawing scars the stem.For no offence but this to Bacchus bleedsThe goat at every altar, and old playsUpon the stage find entrance; therefore tooThe sons of Theseus through the country-side—Hamlet and crossway—set the prize of wit,And on the smooth sward over oiled skinsDance in their tipsy frolic. FurthermoreThe Ausonian swains, a race from Troy derived,Make merry with rough rhymes and boisterous mirth,Grim masks of hollowed bark assume, invokeThee with glad hymns, O Bacchus, and to theeHang puppet-faces on tall pines to swing.Hence every vineyard teems with mellowing fruit,Till hollow vale o'erflows, and gorge profound,Where'er the god hath turned his comely head.Therefore to Bacchus duly will we singMeet honour with ancestral hymns, and catesAnd dishes bear him; and the doomed goatLed by the horn shall at the altar stand,Whose entrails rich on hazel-spits we'll roast. This further task again, to dress the vine,Hath needs beyond exhausting; the whole soilThrice, four times, yearly must be cleft, the sodWith hoes reversed be crushed continually,The whole plantation lightened of its leaves.Round on the labourer spins the wheel of toil,As on its own track rolls the circling year.Soon as the vine her lingering leaves hath shed,And the chill north wind from the forests shookTheir coronal, even then the careful swainLooks keenly forward to the coming year,With Saturn's curved fang pursues and prunesThe vine forlorn, and lops it into shape.Be first to dig the ground up, first to clearAnd burn the refuse-branches, first to houseAgain your vine-poles, last to gather fruit.Twice doth the thickening shade beset the vine,Twice weeds with stifling briers o'ergrow the crop;And each a toilsome labour. Do thou praiseBroad acres, farm but few. Rough twigs besideOf butcher's broom among the woods are cut,And reeds upon the river-banks, and stillThe undressed willow claims thy fostering care.So now the vines are fettered, now the treesLet go the sickle, and the last dresser nowSings of his finished rows; but still the groundMust vexed be, the dust be stirred, and heavenStill set thee trembling for the ripened grapes.
Not so with olives; small husbandry need they,Nor look for sickle bowed or biting rake,When once they have gripped the soil, and borne the breeze.Earth of herself, with hooked fang laid bare,Yields moisture for the plants, and heavy fruit,The ploughshare aiding; therewithal thou'lt rearThe olive's fatness well-beloved of Peace.