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.