Fast flies meanwhile the irreparable hour,As point to point our charmed round we trace.Enough of herds. This second task remains,The wool-clad flocks and shaggy goats to treat.Here lies a labour; hence for glory look,Brave husbandmen. Nor doubtfully knowHow hard it is for words to triumph here,And shed their lustre on a theme so slight:But I am caught by ravishing desireAbove the lone Parnassian steep; I loveTo walk the heights, from whence no earlier trackSlopes gently downward to Castalia's spring.Now, awful Pales, strike a louder tone.
First, for the sheep soft pencotes I decreeTo browse in, till green summer's swift return;And that the hard earth under them with strawAnd handfuls of the fern be littered deep,Lest chill of ice such tender cattle harmWith scab and loathly foot-rot. Passing thenceI bid the goats with arbute-leaves be stored,And served with fresh spring-water, and their pensTurned southward from the blast, to face the sunsOf winter, when Aquarius' icy beamNow sinks in showers upon the parting year.These too no lightlier our protection claim,Nor prove of poorer service, howsoe'erMilesian fleeces dipped in Tyrian redsRepay the barterer; these with offspring teemMore numerous; these yield plenteous store of milk:The more each dry-wrung udder froths the pail,More copious soon the teat-pressed torrents flow.Ay, and on Cinyps' bank the he-goats tooTheir beards and grizzled chins and bristling hairLet clip for camp-use, or as rugs to wrapSeafaring wretches. But they browse the woodsAnd summits of Lycaeus, and rough briers,And brakes that love the highland: of themselvesRight heedfully the she-goats homeward troopBefore their kids, and with plump udders cloggedScarce cross the threshold. Wherefore rather ye,The less they crave man's vigilance, be fainFrom ice to fend them and from snowy winds;Bring food and feast them with their branchy fare,Nor lock your hay-loft all the winter long.But when glad summer at the west wind's callSends either flock to pasture in the glades,Soon as the day-star shineth, hie we thenTo the cool meadows, while the dawn is young,The grass yet hoary, and to browsing herdsThe dew tastes sweetest on the tender sward.When heaven's fourth hour draws on the thickening drought,And shrill cicalas pierce the brake with song,Then at the well-springs bid them, or deep pools,From troughs of holm-oak quaff the running wave:But at day's hottest seek a shadowy vale,Where some vast ancient-timbered oak of JoveSpreads his huge branches, or where huddling blackIlex on ilex cowers in awful shade.Then once more give them water sparingly,And feed once more, till sunset, when cool eveAllays the air, and dewy moonbeams slakeThe forest glades, with halcyon's song the shore,And every thicket with the goldfinch rings.
Of Libya's shepherds why the tale pursue?Why sing their pastures and the scattered hutsThey house in? Oft their cattle day and nightGraze the whole month together, and go forthInto far deserts where no shelter is,So flat the plain and boundless. All his goodsThe Afric swain bears with him, house and home,Arms, Cretan quiver, and Amyclaean dog;As some keen Roman in his country's armsPlies the swift march beneath a cruel load;Soon with tents pitched and at his post he stands,Ere looked for by the foe. Not thus the tribesOf Scythia by the far Maeotic wave,Where turbid Ister whirls his yellow sands,And Rhodope stretched out beneath the poleComes trending backward. There the herds they keepClose-pent in byres, nor any grass is seenUpon the plain, nor leaves upon the tree:But with snow-ridges and deep frost afarHeaped seven ells high the earth lies featureless:Still winter? still the north wind's icy breath!Nay, never sun disparts the shadows pale,Or as he rides the steep of heaven, or dipsIn ocean's fiery bath his plunging car.Quick ice-crusts curdle on the running stream,And iron-hooped wheels the water's back now bears,To broad wains opened, as erewhile to ships;Brass vessels oft asunder burst, and clothesStiffen upon the wearers; juicy winesThey cleave with axes; to one frozen massWhole pools are turned; and on their untrimmed beardsStiff clings the jagged icicle. MeanwhileAll heaven no less is filled with falling snow;The cattle perish: oxen's mighty framesStand island-like amid the frost, and stagsIn huddling herds, by that strange weight benumbed,Scarce top the surface with their antler-points.These with no hounds they hunt, nor net with toils,Nor scare with terror of the crimson plume;But, as in vain they breast the opposing block,Butcher them, knife in hand, and so dispatchLoud-bellowing, and with glad shouts hale them home.Themselves in deep-dug caverns undergroundDwell free and careless; to their hearths they heaveOak-logs and elm-trees whole, and fire them there,There play the night out, and in festive gleeWith barm and service sour the wine-cup mock.So 'neath the seven-starred Hyperborean wainThe folk live tameless, buffeted with blastsOf Eurus from Rhipaean hills, and wrapTheir bodies in the tawny fells of beasts. If wool delight thee, first, be far removedAll prickly boskage, burrs and caltrops; shunLuxuriant pastures; at the outset chooseWhite flocks with downy fleeces. For the ram,How white soe'er himself, be but the tongue'Neath his moist palate black, reject him, lestHe sully with dark spots his offspring's fleece,And seek some other o'er the teeming plain.Even with such snowy bribe of wool, if earMay trust the tale, Pan, God of Arcady,Snared and beguiled thee, Luna, calling theeTo the deep woods; nor thou didst spurn his call.