Georgics
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- Nor of one kind alone are sturdy elms,
- Willow and lotus, nor the cypress-trees
- Of Ida; nor of self-same fashion spring
- Fat olives, orchades, and radii
- And bitter-berried pausians, no, nor yet
- Apples and the forests of Alcinous;
- Nor from like cuttings are Crustumian pears
- And Syrian, and the heavy hand-fillers.
- Not the same vintage from our trees hangs down,
- Which Lesbos from Methymna's tendril plucks.
- Vines Thasian are there, Mareotids white,
- These apt for richer soils, for lighter those:
- Psithian for raisin-wine more useful, thin
- Lageos, that one day will try the feet
- And tie the tongue: purples and early-ripes,
- And how, O Rhaetian, shall I hymn thy praise?
- Yet cope not therefore with Falernian bins.
- Vines Aminaean too, best-bodied wine,
- To which the Tmolian bows him, ay, and king
- Phanaeus too, and, lesser of that name,
- Argitis, wherewith not a grape can vie
- For gush of wine-juice or for length of years.
- Nor thee must I pass over, vine of Rhodes,
- Welcomed by gods and at the second board,
- Nor thee, Bumastus, with plump clusters swollen.
- But lo! how many kinds, and what their names,
- There is no telling, nor doth it boot to tell;
- Who lists to know it, he too would list to learn
- How many sand-grains are by Zephyr tossed
- On Libya's plain, or wot, when Eurus falls
- With fury on the ships, how many waves
- Come rolling shoreward from the Ionian sea.
- Not that all soils can all things bear alike.
- Willows by water-courses have their birth,
- Alders in miry fens; on rocky heights
- The barren mountain-ashes; on the shore
- Myrtles throng gayest; Bacchus, lastly, loves
- The bare hillside, and yews the north wind's chill.
- Mark too the earth by outland tillers tamed,
- And Eastern homes of Arabs, and tattooed
- Geloni; to all trees their native lands
- Allotted are; no clime but India bears
- Black ebony; the branch of frankincense
- Is Saba's sons' alone; why tell to thee
- Of balsams oozing from the perfumed wood,
- Or berries of acanthus ever green?
- Of Aethiop forests hoar with downy wool,
- Or how the Seres comb from off the leaves
- Their silky fleece? Of groves which India bears,
- Ocean's near neighbour, earth's remotest nook,
- Where not an arrow-shot can cleave the air
- Above their tree-tops? yet no laggards they,
- When girded with the quiver! Media yields
- The bitter juices and slow-lingering taste
- Of the blest citron-fruit, than which no aid
- Comes timelier, when fierce step-dames drug the cup
- With simples mixed and spells of baneful power,
- To drive the deadly poison from the limbs.
- Large the tree's self in semblance like a bay,
- And, showered it not a different scent abroad,
- A bay it had been; for no wind of heaven
- Its foliage falls; the flower, none faster, clings;
- With it the Medes for sweetness lave the lips,
- And ease the panting breathlessness of age.
- But no, not Mede-land with its wealth of woods,
- Nor Ganges fair, and Hermus thick with gold,
- Can match the praise of Italy; nor Ind,
- Nor Bactria, nor Panchaia, one wide tract
- Of incense-teeming sand. Here never bulls
- With nostrils snorting fire upturned the sod
- Sown with the monstrous dragon's teeth, nor crop
- Of warriors bristled thick with lance and helm;
- But heavy harvests and the Massic juice
- Of Bacchus fill its borders, overspread
- With fruitful flocks and olives. Hence arose
- The war-horse stepping proudly o'er the plain;
- Hence thy white flocks, Clitumnus, and the bull,
- Of victims mightiest, which full oft have led,
- Bathed in thy sacred stream, the triumph-pomp
- Of Romans to the temples of the gods.
- Here blooms perpetual spring, and summer here
- In months that are not summer's; twice teem the flocks;
- Twice doth the tree yield service of her fruit.
- But ravening tigers come not nigh, nor breed
- Of savage lion, nor aconite betrays
- Its hapless gatherers, nor with sweep so vast
- Doth the scaled serpent trail his endless coils
- Along the ground, or wreathe him into spires.
- Mark too her cities, so many and so proud,
- Of mighty toil the achievement, town on town
- Up rugged precipices heaved and reared,
- And rivers undergliding ancient walls.
- Or should I celebrate the sea that laves
- Her upper shores and lower? or those broad lakes?
- Thee, Larius, greatest and, Benacus, thee
- With billowy uproar surging like the main?
- Or sing her harbours, and the barrier cast
- Athwart the Lucrine, and how ocean chafes
- With mighty bellowings, where the Julian wave
- Echoes the thunder of his rout, and through
- Avernian inlets pours the Tuscan tide?
- A land no less that in her veins displays
- Rivers of silver, mines of copper ore,
- Ay, and with gold hath flowed abundantly.
- A land that reared a valiant breed of men,
- The Marsi and Sabellian youth, and, schooled
- To hardship, the Ligurian, and with these
- The Volscian javelin-armed, the Decii too,
- The Marii and Camilli, names of might,
- The Scipios, stubborn warriors, ay, and thee,
- Great Caesar, who in Asia's utmost bounds
- With conquering arm e'en now art fending far
- The unwarlike Indian from the heights of Rome.
- Hail! land of Saturn, mighty mother thou
- Of fruits and heroes; 'tis for thee I dare
- Unseal the sacred fountains, and essay
- Themes of old art and glory, as I sing
- The song of Ascra through the towns of Rome.
- Now for the native gifts of various soils,
- What powers hath each, what hue, what natural bent
- For yielding increase. First your stubborn lands
- And churlish hill-sides, where are thorny fields
- Of meagre marl and gravel, these delight
- In long-lived olive-groves to Pallas dear.
- Take for a sign the plenteous growth hard by
- Of oleaster, and the fields strewn wide
- With woodland berries. But a soil that's rich,
- In moisture sweet exulting, and the plain
- That teems with grasses on its fruitful breast,
- Such as full oft in hollow mountain-dell
- We view beneath us—from the craggy heights
- Streams thither flow with fertilizing mud—
- A plain which southward rising feeds the fern
- By curved ploughs detested, this one day
- Shall yield thee store of vines full strong to gush
- In torrents of the wine-god; this shall be
- Fruitful of grapes and flowing juice like that
- We pour to heaven from bowls of gold, what time
- The sleek Etruscan at the altar blows
- His ivory pipe, and on the curved dish
- We lay the reeking entrails. If to rear
- Cattle delight thee rather, steers, or lambs,
- Or goats that kill the tender plants, then seek
- Full-fed Tarentum's glades and distant fields,
- Or such a plain as luckless Mantua lost
- Whose weedy water feeds the snow-white swan:
- There nor clear springs nor grass the flocks will fail,
- And all the day-long browsing of thy herds
- Shall the cool dews of one brief night repair.
- Land which the burrowing share shows dark and rich,
- With crumbling soil—for this we counterfeit
- In ploughing—for corn is goodliest; from no field
- More wains thou'lt see wend home with plodding steers;
- Or that from which the husbandman in spleen
- Has cleared the timber, and o'erthrown the copse
- That year on year lay idle, and from the roots
- Uptorn the immemorial haunt of birds;
- They banished from their nests have sought the skies;
- But the rude plain beneath the ploughshare's stroke
- Starts into sudden brightness. For indeed
- The starved hill-country gravel scarce serves the bees
- With lowly cassias and with rosemary;
- Rough tufa and chalk too, by black water-worms
- Gnawed through and through, proclaim no soils beside
- So rife with serpent-dainties, or that yield
- Such winding lairs to lurk in. That again,
- Which vapoury mist and flitting smoke exhales,
- Drinks moisture up and casts it forth at will,
- Which, ever in its own green grass arrayed,
- Mars not the metal with salt scurf of rust—
- That shall thine elms with merry vines enwreathe;
- That teems with olive; that shall thy tilth prove kind
- To cattle, and patient of the curved share.
- Such ploughs rich Capua, such the coast that skirts
- Thy ridge, Vesuvius, and the Clanian flood,
- Acerrae's desolation and her bane.
- How each to recognize now hear me tell.
- Dost ask if loose or passing firm it be—
- Since one for corn hath liking, one for wine,
- The firmer sort for Ceres, none too loose
- For thee, Lyaeus?—with scrutinizing eye
- First choose thy ground, and bid a pit be sunk
- Deep in the solid earth, then cast the mould
- All back again, and stamp the surface smooth.
- If it suffice not, loose will be the land,
- More meet for cattle and for kindly vines;
- But if, rebellious, to its proper bounds
- The soil returns not, but fills all the trench
- And overtops it, then the glebe is gross;
- Look for stiff ridges and reluctant clods,
- And with strong bullocks cleave the fallow crust.
- Salt ground again, and bitter, as 'tis called—
- Barren for fruits, by tilth untamable,
- Nor grape her kind, nor apples their good name
- Maintaining—will in this wise yield thee proof:
- Stout osier-baskets from the rafter-smoke,
- And strainers of the winepress pluck thee down;
- Hereinto let that evil land, with fresh
- Spring-water mixed, be trampled to the full;
- The moisture, mark you, will ooze all away,
- In big drops issuing through the osier-withes,
- But plainly will its taste the secret tell,
- And with a harsh twang ruefully distort
- The mouths of them that try it. Rich soil again
- We learn on this wise: tossed from hand to hand
- Yet cracks it never, but pitch-like, as we hold,
- Clings to the fingers. A land with moisture rife
- Breeds lustier herbage, and is more than meet
- Prolific. Ah I may never such for me
- O'er-fertile prove, or make too stout a show
- At the first earing! Heavy land or light
- The mute self-witness of its weight betrays.
- A glance will serve to warn thee which is black,
- Or what the hue of any. But hard it is
- To track the signs of that pernicious cold:
- Pines only, noxious yews, and ivies dark
- At times reveal its traces.
- All these rules
- Regarding, let your land, ay, long before,
- Scorch to the quick, and into trenches carve
- The mighty mountains, and their upturned clods
- Bare to the north wind, ere thou plant therein
- The vine's prolific kindred. Fields whose soil
- Is crumbling are the best: winds look to that,
- And bitter hoar-frosts, and the delver's toil
- Untiring, as he stirs the loosened glebe.
- But those, whose vigilance no care escapes,
- Search for a kindred site, where first to rear
- A nursery for the trees, and eke whereto
- Soon to translate them, lest the sudden shock
- From their new mother the young plants estrange.
- Nay, even the quarter of the sky they brand
- Upon the bark, that each may be restored,
- As erst it stood, here bore the southern heats,
- Here turned its shoulder to the northern pole;
- So strong is custom formed in early years.
- Whether on hill or plain 'tis best to plant
- Your vineyard first inquire. If on some plain
- You measure out rich acres, then plant thick;
- Thick planting makes no niggard of the vine;
- But if on rising mound or sloping bill,
- Then let the rows have room, so none the less
- Each line you draw, when all the trees are set,
- May tally to perfection. Even as oft
- In mighty war, whenas the legion's length
- Deploys its cohorts, and the column stands
- In open plain, the ranks of battle set,
- And far and near with rippling sheen of arms
- The wide earth flickers, nor yet in grisly strife
- Foe grapples foe, but dubious 'twixt the hosts
- The war-god wavers; so let all be ranged
- In equal rows symmetric, not alone
- To feed an idle fancy with the view,
- But since not otherwise will earth afford
- Vigour to all alike, nor yet the boughs
- Have power to stretch them into open space.
- Shouldst haply of the furrow's depth inquire,
- Even to a shallow trench I dare commit
- The vine; but deeper in the ground is fixed
- The tree that props it, aesculus in chief,
- Which howso far its summit soars toward heaven,
- So deep strikes root into the vaults of hell.
- It therefore neither storms, nor blasts, nor showers
- Wrench from its bed; unshaken it abides,
- Sees many a generation, many an age
- Of men roll onward, and survives them all,
- Stretching its titan arms and branches far,
- Sole central pillar of a world of shade.
- Nor toward the sunset let thy vineyards slope,
- Nor midst the vines plant hazel; neither take
- The topmost shoots for cuttings, nor from the top
- Of the supporting tree your suckers tear;
- So deep their love of earth; nor wound the plants
- With blunted blade; nor truncheons intersperse
- Of the wild olive: for oft from careless swains
- A spark hath fallen, that, 'neath the unctuous rind
- Hid thief-like first, now grips the tough tree-bole,
- And mounting to the leaves on high, sends forth
- A roar to heaven, then coursing through the boughs
- And airy summits reigns victoriously,
- Wraps all the grove in robes of fire, and gross
- With pitch-black vapour heaves the murky reek
- Skyward, but chiefly if a storm has swooped
- Down on the forest, and a driving wind
- Rolls up the conflagration. When 'tis so,
- Their root-force fails them, nor, when lopped away,
- Can they recover, and from the earth beneath
- Spring to like verdure; thus alone survives
- The bare wild olive with its bitter leaves.
- Let none persuade thee, howso weighty-wise,
- To stir the soil when stiff with Boreas' breath.
- Then ice-bound winter locks the fields, nor lets
- The young plant fix its frozen root to earth.
- Best sow your vineyards when in blushing Spring
- Comes the white bird long-bodied snakes abhor,
- Or on the eve of autumn's earliest frost,
- Ere the swift sun-steeds touch the wintry Signs,
- While summer is departing. Spring it is
- Blesses the fruit-plantation, Spring the groves;
- In Spring earth swells and claims the fruitful seed.
- Then Aether, sire omnipotent, leaps down
- With quickening showers to his glad wife's embrace,
- And, might with might commingling, rears to life
- All germs that teem within her; then resound
- With songs of birds the greenwood-wildernesses,
- And in due time the herds their loves renew;
- Then the boon earth yields increase, and the fields
- Unlock their bosoms to the warm west winds;
- Soft moisture spreads o'er all things, and the blades
- Face the new suns, and safely trust them now;
- The vine-shoot, fearless of the rising south,
- Or mighty north winds driving rain from heaven,
- Bursts into bud, and every leaf unfolds.
- Even so, methinks, when Earth to being sprang,
- Dawned the first days, and such the course they held;
- 'Twas Spring-tide then, ay, Spring, the mighty world
- Was keeping: Eurus spared his wintry blasts,
- When first the flocks drank sunlight, and a race
- Of men like iron from the hard glebe arose,
- And wild beasts thronged the woods, and stars the heaven.
- Nor could frail creatures bear this heavy strain,
- Did not so large a respite interpose
- 'Twixt frost and heat, and heaven's relenting arms
- Yield earth a welcome.
- For the rest, whate'er
- The sets thou plantest in thy fields, thereon
- Strew refuse rich, and with abundant earth
- Take heed to hide them, and dig in withal
- Rough shells or porous stone, for therebetween
- Will water trickle and fine vapour creep,
- And so the plants their drooping spirits raise.
- Aye, and there have been, who with weight of stone
- Or heavy potsherd press them from above;
- This serves for shield in pelting showers, and this
- When the hot dog-star chaps the fields with drought.
- The slips once planted, yet remains to cleave
- The earth about their roots persistently,
- And toss the cumbrous hoes, or task the soil
- With burrowing plough-share, and ply up and down
- Your 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 win
- From story up to story.
- Now while yet
- The leaves are in their first fresh infant growth,
- Forbear their frailty, and while yet the bough
- Shoots joyfully toward heaven, with loosened rein
- Launched on the void, assail it not as yet
- With keen-edged sickle, but let the leaves alone
- Be culled with clip of fingers here and there.
- But when they clasp the elms with sturdy trunks
- Erect, then strip the leaves off, prune the boughs;
- Sooner they shrink from steel, but then put forth
- The arm of power, and stem the branchy tide.
- Hedges too must be woven and all beasts
- Barred entrance, chiefly while the leaf is young
- And witless of disaster; for therewith,
- Beside harsh winters and o'erpowering sun,
- Wild buffaloes and pestering goats for ay
- Besport them, sheep and heifers glut their greed.
- Nor cold by hoar-frost curdled, nor the prone
- Dead weight of summer upon the parched crags,
- So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite
- Of their hard tooth, whose gnawing scars the stem.
- For no offence but this to Bacchus bleeds
- The goat at every altar, and old plays
- Upon the stage find entrance; therefore too
- The sons of Theseus through the country-side—
- Hamlet and crossway—set the prize of wit,
- And on the smooth sward over oiled skins
- Dance in their tipsy frolic. Furthermore
- The Ausonian swains, a race from Troy derived,
- Make merry with rough rhymes and boisterous mirth,
- Grim masks of hollowed bark assume, invoke
- Thee with glad hymns, O Bacchus, and to thee
- Hang 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 sing
- Meet honour with ancestral hymns, and cates
- And dishes bear him; and the doomed goat
- Led 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 soil
- Thrice, four times, yearly must be cleft, the sod
- With 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 shook
- Their coronal, even then the careful swain
- Looks keenly forward to the coming year,
- With Saturn's curved fang pursues and prunes
- The vine forlorn, and lops it into shape.
- Be first to dig the ground up, first to clear
- And burn the refuse-branches, first to house
- Again 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 praise
- Broad acres, farm but few. Rough twigs beside
- Of butcher's broom among the woods are cut,
- And reeds upon the river-banks, and still
- The undressed willow claims thy fostering care.
- So now the vines are fettered, now the trees
- Let go the sickle, and the last dresser now
- Sings of his finished rows; but still the ground
- Must vexed be, the dust be stirred, and heaven
- Still 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 rear
- The olive's fatness well-beloved of Peace.
- Apples, moreover, soon as first they feel
- Their stems wax lusty, and have found their strength,
- To heaven climb swiftly, self-impelled, nor crave
- Our succour. All the grove meanwhile no less
- With fruit is swelling, and the wild haunts of birds
- Blush with their blood-red berries. Cytisus
- Is good to browse on, the tall forest yields
- Pine-torches, and the nightly fires are fed
- And shoot forth radiance. And shall men be loath
- To plant, nor lavish of their pains? Why trace
- Things mightier? Willows even and lowly brooms
- To cattle their green leaves, to shepherds shade,
- Fences for crops, and food for honey yield.
- And blithe it is Cytorus to behold
- Waving with box, Narycian groves of pitch;
- Oh! blithe the sight of fields beholden not
- To rake or man's endeavour! the barren woods
- That 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, hence
- Drums 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 box
- Shrink from man's shaping and keen-furrowing steel;
- Light alder floats upon the boiling flood
- Sped down the Padus, and bees house their swarms
- In rotten holm-oak's hollow bark and bole.
- What of like praise can Bacchus' gifts afford?
- Nay, Bacchus even to crime hath prompted, he
- The wine-infuriate Centaurs quelled with death,
- Rhoetus and Pholus, and with mighty bowl
- Hylaeus threatening high the Lapithae.
- Oh! all too happy tillers of the soil,
- Could they but know their blessedness, for whom
- Far from the clash of arms all-equal earth
- Pours from the ground herself their easy fare!
- What though no lofty palace portal-proud
- From all its chambers vomits forth a tide
- Of morning courtiers, nor agape they gaze
- On pillars with fair tortoise-shell inwrought,
- Gold-purfled robes, and bronze from Ephyre;
- Nor is the whiteness of their wool distained
- With drugs Assyrian, nor clear olive's use
- With cassia tainted; yet untroubled calm,
- A life that knows no falsehood, rich enow
- With 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 earth
- Departing 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 seas
- Swell from their depths, and, every barrier burst,
- Sink back upon themselves, why winter-suns
- So haste to dip 'neath ocean, or what check
- The lingering night retards. But if to these
- High realms of nature the cold curdling blood
- About my heart bar access, then be fields
- And stream-washed vales my solace, let me love
- Rivers and woods, inglorious. Oh for you
- Plains, 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 understand
- Nature's hid causes, and beneath his feet
- All 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 drives
- Brother to turn on brother, nor descent
- Of 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 will
- Have borne, he gathers; nor iron rule of laws,
- Nor maddened Forum have his eyes beheld,
- Nor archives of the people. Others vex
- The darksome gulfs of Ocean with their oars,
- Or rush on steel: they press within the courts
- And doors of princes; one with havoc falls
- Upon 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 rolled
- Along the benches: bathed in brothers' blood
- Men revel, and, all delights of hearth and home
- For exile changing, a new country seek
- Beneath an alien sun. The husbandman
- With hooked ploughshare turns the soil; from hence
- Springs his year's labour; hence, too, he sustains
- Country and cottage homestead, and from hence
- His 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 bruise
- The Sicyonian berry; acorn-cheered
- The swine troop homeward; woods their arbutes yield;
- So, various fruit sheds Autumn, and high up
- On sunny rocks the mellowing vintage bakes.
- Meanwhile about his lips sweet children cling;
- His chaste house keeps its purity; his kine
- Drop milky udders, and on the lush green grass
- Fat 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 elm
- Sets up a mark for the swift javelin; they
- Strip 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 became
- The fair world's fairest, and with circling wall
- Clasped 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.