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.
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.
Thee too, great Pales, will I hymn, and thee,Amphrysian shepherd, worthy to be sung,You, woods and waves Lycaean. All themes beside,Which else had charmed the vacant mind with song,Are now waxed common. Of harsh Eurystheus whoThe story knows not, or that praiseless kingBusiris, and his altars? or by whomHath not the tale been told of Hylas young,Latonian Delos and Hippodame,And Pelops for his ivory shoulder famed,Keen charioteer? Needs must a path be tried,By which I too may lift me from the dust,And float triumphant through the mouths of men.Yea, I shall be the first, so life endure,To lead the Muses with me, as I passTo mine own country from the Aonian height;I, Mantua, first will bring thee back the palmsOf Idumaea, and raise a marble shrineOn thy green plain fast by the water-side,Where Mincius winds more vast in lazy coils,And rims his margent with the tender reed.Amid my shrine shall Caesar's godhead dwell.To him will I, as victor, bravely dightIn Tyrian purple, drive along the bankA hundred four-horse cars. All Greece for me,Leaving Alpheus and Molorchus' grove,On foot shall strive, or with the raw-hide glove;Whilst I, my head with stripped green olive crowned,Will offer gifts. Even 'tis present joyTo lead the high processions to the fane,And view the victims felled; or how the sceneSunders with shifted face, and Britain's sonsInwoven thereon with those proud curtains rise.Of gold and massive ivory on the doorsI'll trace the battle of the Gangarides,And our Quirinus' conquering arms, and thereSurging with war, and hugely flowing, the Nile,And columns heaped on high with naval brass.And Asia's vanquished cities I will add,And quelled Niphates, and the Parthian foe,Who trusts in flight and backward-volleying darts,And trophies torn with twice triumphant handFrom empires twain on ocean's either shore.And breathing forms of Parian marble thereShall stand, the offspring of Assaracus,And great names of the Jove-descended folk,And father Tros, and Troy's first founder, lordOf Cynthus. And accursed Envy thereShall dread the Furies, and thy ruthless flood,Cocytus, and Ixion's twisted snakes,And that vast wheel and ever-baffling stone.Meanwhile the Dryad-haunted woods and lawnsUnsullied seek we; 'tis thy hard behest,Maecenas. Without thee no lofty taskMy mind essays. Up! break the sluggish bondsOf tarriance; with loud din Cithaeron calls,Steed-taming Epidaurus, and thy hounds,Taygete; and hark! the assenting grovesWith peal on peal reverberate the roar.Yet must I gird me to rehearse ere longThe fiery fights of Caesar, speed his nameThrough ages, countless as to Caesar's selfFrom the first birth-dawn of Tithonus old. If eager for the prized Olympian palmOne breed the horse, or bullock strong to plough,Be his prime care a shapely dam to choose.Of kine grim-faced is goodliest, with coarse headAnd burly neck, whose hanging dewlaps reachFrom chin to knee; of boundless length her flank;Large every way she is, large-footed even,With incurved horns and shaggy ears beneath.Nor let mislike me one with spots of whiteConspicuous, or that spurns the yoke, whose hornAt times hath vice in't: liker bull-faced she,And tall-limbed wholly, and with tip of tailBrushing her footsteps as she walks along.The age for Hymen's rites, Lucina's pangs,Ere ten years ended, after four begins;Their residue of days nor apt to teem,Nor strong for ploughing. Meantime, while youth's delightSurvives within them, loose the males: be firstTo speed thy herds of cattle to their loves,Breed stock with stock, and keep the race supplied.Ah! life's best hours are ever first to flyFrom hapless mortals; in their place succeedDisease and dolorous eld; till travail soreAnd death unpitying sweep them from the scene.Still will be some, whose form thou fain wouldst change;Renew them still; with yearly choice of youngPreventing losses, lest too late thou rue.
Nor steeds crave less selection; but on thoseThou think'st to rear, the promise of their line,From earliest youth thy chiefest pains bestow.See from the first yon high-bred colt afield,His lofty step, his limbs' elastic tread:Dauntless he leads the herd, still first to tryThe threatening flood, or brave the unknown bridge,By no vain noise affrighted; lofty-necked,With clean-cut head, short belly, and stout back;His sprightly breast exuberant with brawn.Chestnut and grey are good; the worst-hued whiteAnd sorrel. Then lo! if arms are clashed afar,Bide still he cannot: ears stiffen and limbs quake;His nostrils snort and roll out wreaths of fire.Dense is his mane, that when uplifted fallsOn his right shoulder; betwixt either loinThe spine runs double; his earth-dinting hoofRings with the ponderous beat of solid horn.Even such a horse was Cyllarus, reined and tamedBy Pollux of Amyclae; such the pairIn Grecian song renowned, those steeds of Mars,And famed Achilles' team: in such-like formGreat Saturn's self with mane flung loose on neckSped at his wife's approach, and flying filledThe heights of Pelion with his piercing neigh. Even him, when sore disease or sluggish eldNow saps his strength, pen fast at home, and spareHis not inglorious age. A horse grown oldSlow kindling unto love in vain prolongsThe fruitless task, and, to the encounter come,As fire in stubble blusters without strength,He rages idly. Therefore mark thou firstTheir age and mettle, other points anon,As breed and lineage, or what pain was theirsTo lose the race, what pride the palm to win.Seest how the chariots in mad rivalryPoured from the barrier grip the course and go,When youthful hope is highest, and every heartDrained with each wild pulsation? How they plyThe circling lash, and reaching forward letThe reins hang free! Swift spins the glowing wheel;And now they stoop, and now erect in airSeem borne through space and towering to the sky:No stop, no stay; the dun sand whirls aloft;They reek with foam-flakes and pursuing breath;So sweet is fame, so prized the victor's palm.'Twas Ericthonius first took heart to yokeFour horses to his car, and rode aboveThe whirling wheels to victory: but the ringAnd bridle-reins, mounted on horses' backs,The Pelethronian Lapithae bequeathed,And taught the knight in arms to spurn the ground,And arch the upgathered footsteps of his pride.Each task alike is arduous, and for eachA horse young, fiery, swift of foot, they seek;How oft so-e'er yon rival may have chasedThe flying foe, or boast his native plainEpirus, or Mycenae's stubborn hold,And trace his lineage back to Neptune's birth. These points regarded, as the time draws nigh,With instant zeal they lavish all their careTo plump with solid fat the chosen chiefAnd designated husband of the herd:And flowery herbs they cut, and serve him wellWith corn and running water, that his strengthNot fail him for that labour of delight,Nor puny colts betray the feeble sire.The herd itself of purpose they reduceTo leanness, and when love's sweet longing firstProvokes them, they forbid the leafy food,And pen them from the springs, and oft besideWith running shake, and tire them in the sun,What time the threshing-floor groans heavilyWith pounding of the corn-ears, and light chaffIs whirled on high to catch the rising west.This do they that the soil's prolific powersMay not be dulled by surfeiting, nor chokeThe sluggish furrows, but eagerly absorbTheir fill of love, and deeply entertain.
To care of sire the mother's care succeeds.When great with young they wander nigh their time,Let no man suffer them to drag the yokeIn heavy wains, nor leap across the way,Nor scour the meads, nor swim the rushing flood.In lonely lawns they feed them, by the courseOf brimming streams, where moss is, and the banksWith grass are greenest, where are sheltering caves,And far outstretched the rock-flung shadow lies.Round wooded Silarus and the ilex-bowersOf green Alburnus swarms a winged pest—Its Roman name Asilus, by the GreeksTermed Oestros—fierce it is, and harshly hums,Driving whole herds in terror through the groves,Till heaven is madded by their bellowing din,And Tanager's dry bed and forest-banks.With this same scourge did Juno wreak of oldThe terrors of her wrath, a plague devisedAgainst the heifer sprung from Inachus.From this too thou, since in the noontide heats'Tis most persistent, fend thy teeming herds,And feed them when the sun is newly risen,Or the first stars are ushering in the night.
But, yeaning ended, all their tender careIs to the calves transferred; at once with marksThey brand them, both to designate their race,And which to rear for breeding, or devoteAs altar-victims, or to cleave the groundAnd into ridges tear and turn the sod.The rest along the greensward graze at will.Those that to rustic uses thou wouldst mould,As calves encourage and take steps to tame,While pliant wills and plastic youth allow.And first of slender withies round the throatLoose collars hang, then when their free-born necksAre used to service, with the self-same bandsYoke them in pairs, and steer by steer compelKeep pace together. And time it is that oftUnfreighted wheels be drawn along the groundBehind them, as to dint the surface-dust;Then let the beechen axle strain and creak'Neath some stout burden, whilst a brazen poleDrags on the wheels made fast thereto. MeanwhileFor their unbroken youth not grass alone,Nor meagre willow-leaves and marish-sedge,But corn-ears with thy hand pluck from the crops.Nor shall the brood-kine, as of yore, for theeBrim high the snowy milking-pail, but spendTheir udders' fullness on their own sweet young.