Then thou shalt suffer in alternate yearsThe new-reaped fields to rest, and on the plainA crust of sloth to harden; or, when starsAre changed in heaven, there sow the golden grainWhere erst, luxuriant with its quivering pod,Pulse, or the slender vetch-crop, thou hast cleared,And lupin sour, whose brittle stalks arise,A hurtling forest. For the plain is parchedBy flax-crop, parched by oats, by poppies parchedIn Lethe-slumber drenched. Nathless by changeThe travailing earth is lightened, but stint notWith refuse rich to soak the thirsty soil,And shower foul ashes o'er the exhausted fields.Thus by rotation like repose is gained,Nor earth meanwhile uneared and thankless left.Oft, too, 'twill boot to fire the naked fields,And the light stubble burn with crackling flames;Whether that earth therefrom some hidden strengthAnd fattening food derives, or that the fireBakes every blemish out, and sweats awayEach useless humour, or that the heat unlocksNew passages and secret pores, wherebyTheir life-juice to the tender blades may win;Or that it hardens more and helps to bindThe gaping veins, lest penetrating showers,Or fierce sun's ravening might, or searching blastOf the keen north should sear them. Well, I wot,He serves the fields who with his harrow breaksThe sluggish clods, and hurdles osier-twinedHales o'er them; from the far Olympian heightHim golden Ceres not in vain regards;And he, who having ploughed the fallow plainAnd heaved its furrowy ridges, turns once moreCross-wise his shattering share, with stroke on strokeThe earth assails, and makes the field his thrall. Pray for wet summers and for winters fine,Ye husbandmen; in winter's dust the cropsExceedingly rejoice, the field hath joy;No tilth makes Mysia lift her head so high,Nor Gargarus his own harvests so admire.Why tell of him, who, having launched his seed,Sets on for close encounter, and rakes smoothThe dry dust hillocks, then on the tender cornLets in the flood, whose waters follow fain;And when the parched field quivers, and all the bladesAre dying, from the brow of its hill-bed,See! see! he lures the runnel; down it falls,Waking hoarse murmurs o'er the polished stones,And with its bubblings slakes the thirsty fields?Or why of him, who lest the heavy earsO'erweigh the stalk, while yet in tender bladeFeeds down the crop's luxuriance, when its growthFirst tops the furrows? Why of him who drainsThe marsh-land's gathered ooze through soaking sand,Chiefly what time in treacherous moons a streamGoes out in spate, and with its coat of slimeHolds all the country, whence the hollow dykesSweat steaming vapour?

But no whit the moreFor all expedients tried and travail borneBy man and beast in turning oft the soil,Do greedy goose and Strymon-haunting cranesAnd succory's bitter fibres cease to harm,Or shade not injure. The great Sire himselfNo easy road to husbandry assigned,And first was he by human skill to rouseThe slumbering glebe, whetting the minds of menWith care on care, nor suffering realm of hisIn drowsy sloth to stagnate. Before JoveFields knew no taming hand of husbandmen;To mark the plain or mete with boundary-line—Even this was impious; for the common stockThey gathered, and the earth of her own willAll things more freely, no man bidding, bore.He to black serpents gave their venom-bane,And bade the wolf go prowl, and ocean toss;Shooed from the leaves their honey, put fire away,And curbed the random rivers running wine,That use by gradual dint of thought on thoughtMight forge the various arts, with furrow's helpThe corn-blade win, and strike out hidden fireFrom the flint's heart. Then first the streams were wareOf hollowed alder-hulls: the sailor thenTheir names and numbers gave to star and star,Pleiads and Hyads, and Lycaon's childBright Arctos; how with nooses then was foundTo catch wild beasts, and cozen them with lime,And hem with hounds the mighty forest-glades.Soon one with hand-net scourges the broad stream,Probing its depths, one drags his dripping toilsAlong the main; then iron's unbending might,And shrieking saw-blade,—for the men of oldWith wedges wont to cleave the splintering log;—Then divers arts arose; toil conquered all,Remorseless toil, and poverty's shrewd pushIn times of hardship. Ceres was the firstSet mortals on with tools to turn the sod,When now the awful groves 'gan fail to bearAcorns and arbutes, and her wonted foodDodona gave no more. Soon, too, the cornGat sorrow's increase, that an evil blightAte up the stalks, and thistle reared his spinesAn idler in the fields; the crops die down;Upsprings instead a shaggy growth of burrsAnd caltrops; and amid the corn-fields trimUnfruitful darnel and wild oats have sway.Wherefore, unless thou shalt with ceaseless rakeThe weeds pursue, with shouting scare the birds,Prune with thy hook the dark field's matted shade,Pray down the showers, all vainly thou shalt eye,Alack! thy neighbour's heaped-up harvest-mow,And in the greenwood from a shaken oakSeek solace for thine hunger.