Apples, moreover, soon as first they feelTheir stems wax lusty, and have found their strength,To heaven climb swiftly, self-impelled, nor craveOur succour. All the grove meanwhile no lessWith fruit is swelling, and the wild haunts of birdsBlush with their blood-red berries. CytisusIs good to browse on, the tall forest yieldsPine-torches, and the nightly fires are fedAnd shoot forth radiance. And shall men be loathTo plant, nor lavish of their pains? Why traceThings mightier? Willows even and lowly broomsTo cattle their green leaves, to shepherds shade,Fences for crops, and food for honey yield.And blithe it is Cytorus to beholdWaving with box, Narycian groves of pitch;Oh! blithe the sight of fields beholden notTo rake or man's endeavour! the barren woodsThat crown the scalp of Caucasus, even these,Which furious blasts for ever rive and rend,Yield various wealth, pine-logs that serve for ships,Cedar and cypress for the homes of men;Hence, too, the farmers shave their wheel-spokes, henceDrums for their wains, and curved boat-keels fit;Willows bear twigs enow, the elm-tree leaves,Myrtle stout spear-shafts, war-tried cornel too;Yews into Ituraean bows are bent:Nor do smooth lindens or lathe-polished boxShrink from man's shaping and keen-furrowing steel;Light alder floats upon the boiling floodSped down the Padus, and bees house their swarmsIn rotten holm-oak's hollow bark and bole.What of like praise can Bacchus' gifts afford?Nay, Bacchus even to crime hath prompted, heThe wine-infuriate Centaurs quelled with death,Rhoetus and Pholus, and with mighty bowlHylaeus threatening high the Lapithae. Oh! all too happy tillers of the soil,Could they but know their blessedness, for whomFar from the clash of arms all-equal earthPours from the ground herself their easy fare!What though no lofty palace portal-proudFrom all its chambers vomits forth a tideOf morning courtiers, nor agape they gazeOn pillars with fair tortoise-shell inwrought,Gold-purfled robes, and bronze from Ephyre;Nor is the whiteness of their wool distainedWith drugs Assyrian, nor clear olive's useWith cassia tainted; yet untroubled calm,A life that knows no falsehood, rich enowWith various treasures, yet broad-acred ease,Grottoes and living lakes, yet Tempes cool,Lowing of kine, and sylvan slumbers soft,They lack not; lawns and wild beasts' haunts are there,A youth of labour patient, need-inured,Worship, and reverend sires: with them from earthDeparting justice her last footprints left.
Me before all things may the Muses sweet,Whose rites I bear with mighty passion pierced,Receive, and show the paths and stars of heaven,The sun's eclipses and the labouring moons,From whence the earthquake, by what power the seasSwell from their depths, and, every barrier burst,Sink back upon themselves, why winter-sunsSo haste to dip 'neath ocean, or what checkThe lingering night retards. But if to theseHigh realms of nature the cold curdling bloodAbout my heart bar access, then be fieldsAnd stream-washed vales my solace, let me loveRivers and woods, inglorious. Oh for youPlains, and Spercheius, and Taygete,By Spartan maids o'er-revelled! Oh, for one,Would set me in deep dells of Haemus cool,And shield me with his boughs' o'ershadowing might!Happy, who had the skill to understandNature's hid causes, and beneath his feetAll terrors cast, and death's relentless doom,And the loud roar of greedy Acheron.Blest too is he who knows the rural gods,Pan, old Silvanus, and the sister-nymphs!Him nor the rods of public power can bend,Nor kingly purple, nor fierce feud that drivesBrother to turn on brother, nor descentOf Dacian from the Danube's leagued flood,Nor Rome's great State, nor kingdoms like to die;Nor hath he grieved through pitying of the poor,Nor envied him that hath. What fruit the boughs,And what the fields, of their own bounteous willHave borne, he gathers; nor iron rule of laws,Nor maddened Forum have his eyes beheld,Nor archives of the people. Others vexThe darksome gulfs of Ocean with their oars,Or rush on steel: they press within the courtsAnd doors of princes; one with havoc fallsUpon a city and its hapless hearths,From gems to drink, on Tyrian rugs to lie;This hoards his wealth and broods o'er buried gold;One at the rostra stares in blank amaze;One gaping sits transported by the cheers,The answering cheers of plebs and senate rolledAlong the benches: bathed in brothers' bloodMen revel, and, all delights of hearth and homeFor exile changing, a new country seekBeneath an alien sun. The husbandmanWith hooked ploughshare turns the soil; from henceSprings his year's labour; hence, too, he sustainsCountry and cottage homestead, and from henceHis herds of cattle and deserving steers.No respite! still the year o'erflows with fruit,Or young of kine, or Ceres' wheaten sheaf,With crops the furrow loads, and bursts the barns. Winter is come: in olive-mills they bruiseThe Sicyonian berry; acorn-cheeredThe swine troop homeward; woods their arbutes yield;So, various fruit sheds Autumn, and high upOn sunny rocks the mellowing vintage bakes.Meanwhile about his lips sweet children cling;His chaste house keeps its purity; his kineDrop milky udders, and on the lush green grassFat kids are striving, horn to butting horn.Himself keeps holy days; stretched o'er the sward,Where round the fire his comrades crown the bowl,He pours libation, and thy name invokes,Lenaeus, and for the herdsmen on an elmSets up a mark for the swift javelin; theyStrip their tough bodies for the rustic sport.Such life of yore the ancient Sabines led,Such Remus and his brother: Etruria thus,Doubt not, to greatness grew, and Rome becameThe fair world's fairest, and with circling wallClasped to her single breast the sevenfold hills.Ay, ere the reign of Dicte's king, ere men,Waxed godless, banqueted on slaughtered bulls,Such life on earth did golden Saturn lead.Nor ear of man had heard the war-trump's blast,Nor clang of sword on stubborn anvil set. But lo! a boundless space we have travelled o'er;'Tis time our steaming horses to unyoke.