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. But who for milk hath longing, must himselfCarry lucerne and lotus-leaves enowWith salt herbs to the cote, whence more they loveThe streams, more stretch their udders, and give backA subtle taste of saltness in the milk.Many there be who from their mothers keepThe new-born kids, and straightway bind their mouthsWith iron-tipped muzzles. What they milk at dawn,Or in the daylight hours, at night they press;What darkling or at sunset, this ere mornThey bear away in baskets—for to townThe shepherd hies him—or with dash of saltJust sprinkle, and lay by for winter use.
Nor be thy dogs last cared for; but alikeSwift Spartan hounds and fierce Molossian feedOn fattening whey. Never, with these to watch,Dread nightly thief afold and ravening wolves,Or Spanish desperadoes in the rear.And oft the shy wild asses thou wilt chase,With hounds, too, hunt the hare, with hounds the doe;Oft from his woodland wallowing-den uprouseThe boar, and scare him with their baying, and drive,And o'er the mountains urge into the toilsSome antlered monster to their chiming cry.
Learn also scented cedar-wood to burnWithin the stalls, and snakes of noxious smellWith fumes of galbanum to drive away.Oft under long-neglected cribs, or lurksA viper ill to handle, that hath fledThe light in terror, or some snake, that wont'Neath shade and sheltering roof to creep, and showerIts bane among the cattle, hugs the ground,Fell scourge of kine. Shepherd, seize stakes, seize stones!And as he rears defiance, and puffs outA hissing throat, down with him! see how lowThat cowering crest is vailed in flight, the while,His midmost coils and final sweep of tailRelaxing, the last fold drags lingering spires.Then that vile worm that in Calabrian gladesUprears his breast, and wreathes a scaly back,His length of belly pied with mighty spots—While from their founts gush any streams, while yetWith showers of Spring and rainy south-winds earthIs moistened, lo! he haunts the pools, and hereHoused in the banks, with fish and chattering frogsCrams the black void of his insatiate maw.Soon as the fens are parched, and earth with heatIs gaping, forth he darts into the dry,Rolls eyes of fire and rages through the fields,Furious from thirst and by the drought dismayed.Me list not then beneath the open heavenTo snatch soft slumber, nor on forest-ridgeLie stretched along the grass, when, slipped his slough,To glittering youth transformed he winds his spires,And eggs or younglings leaving in his lair,Towers sunward, lightening with three-forked tongue.
Of sickness, too, the causes and the signsI'll teach thee. Loathly scab assails the sheep,When chilly showers have probed them to the quick,And winter stark with hoar-frost, or when sweatUnpurged cleaves to them after shearing done,And rough thorns rend their bodies. Hence it isShepherds their whole flock steep in running streams,While, plunged beneath the flood, with drenched fell,The ram, launched free, goes drifting down the tide.Else, having shorn, they smear their bodies o'erWith acrid oil-lees, and mix silver-scumAnd native sulphur and Idaean pitch,Wax mollified with ointment, and therewithSea-leek, strong hellebores, bitumen black.Yet ne'er doth kindlier fortune crown his toil,Than if with blade of iron a man dare lanceThe ulcer's mouth ope: for the taint is fedAnd quickened by confinement; while the swainHis hand of healing from the wound withholds,Or sits for happier signs imploring heaven.Aye, and when inward to the bleater's bonesThe pain hath sunk and rages, and their limbsBy thirsty fever are consumed, 'tis goodTo draw the enkindled heat therefrom, and pierceWithin the hoof-clefts a blood-bounding vein.Of tribes Bisaltic such the wonted use,And keen Gelonian, when to Rhodope
He flies, or Getic desert, and quaffs milkWith horse-blood curdled. Seest one far afieldOft to the shade's mild covert win, or pullThe grass tops listlessly, or hindmost lag,Or, browsing, cast her down amid the plain,At night retire belated and alone;With quick knife check the mischief, ere it creepWith dire contagion through the unwary herd.Less thick and fast the whirlwind scours the mainWith tempest in its wake, than swarm the plaguesOf cattle; nor seize they single lives alone,But sudden clear whole feeding grounds, the flockWith all its promise, and extirpate the breed.Well would he trow it who, so long after, stillHigh Alps and Noric hill-forts should behold,And Iapydian Timavus' fields,Ay, still behold the shepherds' realms a waste,And far and wide the lawns untenanted. Here from distempered heavens erewhile aroseA piteous season, with the full fierce heatOf autumn glowed, and cattle-kindreds allAnd all wild creatures to destruction gave,Tainted the pools, the fodder charged with bane.Nor simple was the way of death, but whenHot thirst through every vein impelled had drawnTheir wretched limbs together, anon o'erflowedA watery flux, and all their bones piecemealSapped by corruption to itself absorbed.Oft in mid sacrifice to heaven—the whiteWool-woven fillet half wreathed about his brow—Some victim, standing by the altar, thereBetwixt the loitering carles a-dying fell:Or, if betimes the slaughtering priest had struck,Nor with its heaped entrails blazed the pile,Nor seer to seeker thence could answer yield;Nay, scarce the up-stabbing knife with blood was stained,Scarce sullied with thin gore the surface-sand.Hence die the calves in many a pasture fair,Or at full cribs their lives' sweet breath resign;Hence on the fawning dog comes madness, henceRacks the sick swine a gasping cough that chokesWith swelling at the jaws: the conquering steed,Uncrowned of effort and heedless of the sward,Faints, turns him from the springs, and paws the earthWith ceaseless hoof: low droop his ears, wherefromBursts fitful sweat, a sweat that waxes coldUpon the dying beast; the skin is dry,And rigidly repels the handler's touch.These earlier signs they give that presage doom.But, if the advancing plague 'gin fiercer grow,Then are their eyes all fire, deep-drawn their breath,At times groan-laboured: with long sobbing heaveTheir lowest flanks; from either nostril streamsBlack blood; a rough tongue clogs the obstructed jaws.'Twas helpful through inverted horn to pourDraughts of the wine-god down; sole way it seemedTo save the dying: soon this too proved their bane,And, reinvigorate but with frenzy's fire,Even at death's pinch—the gods some happier fateDeal to the just, such madness to their foes—Each with bared teeth his own limbs mangling tore.See! as he smokes beneath the stubborn share,The bull drops, vomiting foam-dabbled gore,And heaves his latest groans. Sad goes the swain,Unhooks the steer that mourns his fellow's fate,And in mid labour leaves the plough-gear fast.Nor tall wood's shadow, nor soft sward may stirThat heart's emotion, nor rock-channelled flood,More pure than amber speeding to the plain:But see! his flanks fail under him, his eyesAre dulled with deadly torpor, and his neckSinks to the earth with drooping weight.
What nowBesteads him toil or service? to have turnedThe heavy sod with ploughshare? And yet theseNe'er knew the Massic wine-god's baneful boon,Nor twice replenished banquets: but on leavesThey fare, and virgin grasses, and their cupsAre crystal springs and streams with running tired,Their healthful slumbers never broke by care.Then only, say they, through that country sideFor Juno's rites were cattle far to seek,And ill-matched buffaloes the chariots drewTo their high fanes. So, painfully with rakesThey grub the soil, aye, with their very nailsDig in the corn-seeds, and with strained neckO'er the high uplands drag the creaking wains.No wolf for ambush pries about the pen,Nor round the flock prowls nightly; pain more sharpSubdues him: the shy deer and fleet-foot stagsWith hounds now wander by the haunts of menVast ocean's offspring, and all tribes that swim,On the shore's confine the wave washes up,Like shipwrecked bodies: seals, unwonted there,Flee to the rivers. Now the viper dies,For all his den's close winding, and with scalesErect the astonied water-worms. The airBrooks not the very birds, that headlong fall,And leave their life beneath the soaring cloud.Moreover now nor change of fodder serves,And subtlest cures but injure; then were foiledThe masters, Chiron sprung from Phillyron,And Amythaon's son Melampus. See!From Stygian darkness launched into the lightComes raging pale Tisiphone; she drivesDisease and fear before her, day by dayStill rearing higher that all-devouring head.With bleat of flocks and lowings thick resoundRivers and parched banks and sloping heights.At last in crowds she slaughters them, she chokesThe very stalls with carrion-heaps that rotIn hideous corruption, till men learnWith earth to cover them, in pits to hide.For e'en the fells are useless; nor the fleshWith water may they purge, or tame with fire,Nor shear the fleeces even, gnawed through and throughWith foul disease, nor touch the putrid webs;But, had one dared the loathly weeds to try,Red blisters and an unclean sweat o'erranHis noisome limbs, till, no long tarriance made,The fiery curse his tainted frame devoured.
Of air-born honey, gift of heaven, I nowTake up the tale. Upon this theme no lessLook thou, Maecenas, with indulgent eye.A marvellous display of puny powers,High-hearted chiefs, a nation's history,Its traits, its bent, its battles and its clans,All, each, shall pass before you, while I sing.Slight though the poet's theme, not slight the praise,So frown not heaven, and Phoebus hear his call.
First find your bees a settled sure abode,Where neither winds can enter (winds blow backThe foragers with food returning home)Nor sheep and butting kids tread down the flowers,Nor heifer wandering wide upon the plainDash off the dew, and bruise the springing blades.Let the gay lizard too keep far aloofHis scale-clad body from their honied stalls,And the bee-eater, and what birds beside,And Procne smirched with blood upon the breastFrom her own murderous hands. For these roam wideWasting all substance, or the bees themselvesStrike flying, and in their beaks bear home, to glutThose savage nestlings with the dainty prey.But let clear springs and moss-green pools be near,And through the grass a streamlet hurrying run,Some palm-tree o'er the porch extend its shade,Or huge-grown oleaster, that in Spring,Their own sweet Spring-tide, when the new-made chiefsLead forth the young swarms, and, escaped their comb,The colony comes forth to sport and play,The neighbouring bank may lure them from the heat,Or bough befriend with hospitable shade.O'er the mid-waters, whether swift or still,Cast willow-branches and big stones enow,Bridge after bridge, where they may footing findAnd spread their wide wings to the summer sun,If haply Eurus, swooping as they pause,Have dashed with spray or plunged them in the deep.And let green cassias and far-scented thymes,And savory with its heavy-laden breathBloom round about, and violet-beds hard bySip sweetness from the fertilizing springs.For the hive's self, or stitched of hollow bark,Or from tough osier woven, let the doorsBe strait of entrance; for stiff winter's coldCongeals the honey, and heat resolves and thaws,To bees alike disastrous; not for naughtSo haste they to cement the tiny poresThat pierce their walls, and fill the crevicesWith pollen from the flowers, and glean and keepTo this same end the glue, that binds more fastThan bird-lime or the pitch from Ida's pines.Oft too in burrowed holes, if fame be true,They make their cosy subterranean home,And deeply lodged in hollow rocks are found,Or in the cavern of an age-hewn tree.Thou not the less smear round their crannied cribsWith warm smooth mud-coat, and strew leaves above;But near their home let neither yew-tree grow,Nor reddening crabs be roasted, and mistrustDeep marish-ground and mire with noisome smell,Or where the hollow rocks sonorous ring,And the word spoken buffets and rebounds.