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.
But if fierce squadrons and the ranks of warDelight thee rather, or on wheels to glideAt Pisa, with Alpheus fleeting by,And in the grove of Jupiter urge onThe flying chariot, be your steed's first taskTo face the warrior's armed rage, and brookThe trumpet, and long roar of rumbling wheels,And clink of chiming bridles in the stall;Then more and more to love his master's voiceCaressing, or loud hand that claps his neck.Ay, thus far let him learn to dare, when firstWeaned from his mother, and his mouth at timesYield to the supple halter, even while yetWeak, tottering-limbed, and ignorant of life.But, three years ended, when the fourth arrives,Now let him tarry not to run the ringWith rhythmic hoof-beat echoing, and now learnAlternately to curve each bending leg,And be like one that struggleth; then at lastChallenge the winds to race him, and at speedLaunched through the open, like a reinless thing,Scarce print his footsteps on the surface-sand.As when with power from Hyperborean climesThe north wind stoops, and scatters from his pathDry clouds and storms of Scythia; the tall cornAnd rippling plains 'gin shiver with light gusts;A sound is heard among the forest-tops;Long waves come racing shoreward: fast he flies,With instant pinion sweeping earth and main.A steed like this or on the mighty courseOf Elis at the goal will sweat, and showerRed foam-flakes from his mouth, or, kindlier task,With patient neck support the Belgian car.Then, broken at last, let swell their burly frameWith fattening corn-mash, for, unbroke, they willWith pride wax wanton, and, when caught, refuseTough lash to brook or jagged curb obey. But no device so fortifies their powerAs love's blind stings of passion to forefend,Whether on steed or steer thy choice be set.Ay, therefore 'tis they banish bulls afarTo solitary pastures, or behindSome mountain-barrier, or broad streams beyond,Or else in plenteous stalls pen fast at home.For, even through sight of her, the female wastesHis strength with smouldering fire, till he forgetBoth grass and woodland. She indeed full oftWith her sweet charms can lovers proud compelTo battle for the conquest horn to horn.In Sila's forest feeds the heifer fair,While each on each the furious rivals run;Wound follows wound; the black blood laves their limbs;Horns push and strive against opposing horns,With mighty groaning; all the forest-sideAnd far Olympus bellow back the roar.Nor wont the champions in one stall to couch;But he that's worsted hies him to strange climesFar off, an exile, moaning much the shame,The blows of that proud conqueror, then love's lossAvenged not; with one glance toward the byre,His ancient royalties behind him lie.So with all heed his strength he practiseth,And nightlong makes the hard bare stones his bed,And feeds on prickly leaf and pointed rush,And proves himself, and butting at a treeLearns to fling wrath into his horns, with blowsProvokes the air, and scattering clouds of sandMakes prelude of the battle; afterward,With strength repaired and gathered might breaks camp,And hurls him headlong on the unthinking foe:As in mid ocean when a wave far ofBegins to whiten, mustering from the mainIts rounded breast, and, onward rolled to landFalls with prodigious roar among the rocks,Huge as a very mountain: but the depthsUpseethe in swirling eddies, and disgorgeThe murky sand-lees from their sunken bed. Nay, every race on earth of men, and beasts,And ocean-folk, and flocks, and painted birds,Rush to the raging fire: love sways them all.Never than then more fiercely o'er the plainProwls heedless of her whelps the lioness:Nor monstrous bears such wide-spread havoc-doomDeal through the forests; then the boar is fierce,Most deadly then the tigress: then, alack!Ill roaming is it on Libya's lonely plains.Mark you what shivering thrills the horse's frame,If but a waft the well-known gust conveys?Nor curb can check them then, nor lash severe,Nor rocks and caverned crags, nor barrier-floods,That rend and whirl and wash the hills away.Then speeds amain the great Sabellian boar,His tushes whets, with forefoot tears the ground,Rubs 'gainst a tree his flanks, and to and froHardens each wallowing shoulder to the wound.What of the youth, when love's relentless mightStirs the fierce fire within his veins? Behold!In blindest midnight how he swims the gulfConvulsed with bursting storm-clouds! Over himHeaven's huge gate thunders; the rock-shattered mainUtters a warning cry; nor parents' tearsCan backward call him, nor the maid he loves,Too soon to die on his untimely pyre.What of the spotted ounce to Bacchus dear,Or warlike wolf-kin or the breed of dogs?Why tell how timorous stags the battle join?O'er all conspicuous is the rage of mares,By Venus' self inspired of old, what timeThe Potnian four with rending jaws devouredThe limbs of Glaucus. Love-constrained they roamPast Gargarus, past the loud Ascanian flood;They climb the mountains, and the torrents swim;And when their eager marrow first conceivesThe fire, in Spring-tide chiefly, for with SpringWarmth doth their frames revisit, then they standAll facing westward on the rocky heights,And of the gentle breezes take their fill;And oft unmated, marvellous to tell,But of the wind impregnate, far and wideO'er craggy height and lowly vale they scud,Not toward thy rising, Eurus, or the sun's,But westward and north-west, or whence up-springsBlack Auster, that glooms heaven with rainy cold.Hence from their groin slow drips a poisonous juice,By shepherds truly named hippomanes,Hippomanes, fell stepdames oft have culled,And mixed with herbs and spells of baneful bode. 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.