Georgics
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- Now to tell
- The sturdy rustics' weapons, what they are,
- Without which, neither can be sown nor reared
- The fruits of harvest; first the bent plough's share
- And heavy timber, and slow-lumbering wains
- Of the Eleusinian mother, threshing-sleighs
- And drags, and harrows with their crushing weight;
- Then the cheap wicker-ware of Celeus old,
- Hurdles of arbute, and thy mystic fan,
- Iacchus; which, full tale, long ere the time
- Thou must with heed lay by, if thee await
- Not all unearned the country's crown divine.
- While yet within the woods, the elm is tamed
- And bowed with mighty force to form the stock,
- And take the plough's curved shape, then nigh the root
- A pole eight feet projecting, earth-boards twain,
- And share-beam with its double back they fix.
- For yoke is early hewn a linden light,
- And a tall beech for handle, from behind
- To turn the car at lowest: then o'er the hearth
- The wood they hang till the smoke knows it well.
- Many the precepts of the men of old
- I can recount thee, so thou start not back,
- And such slight cares to learn not weary thee.
- And this among the first: thy threshing-floor
- With ponderous roller must be levelled smooth,
- And wrought by hand, and fixed with binding chalk,
- Lest weeds arise, or dust a passage win
- Splitting the surface, then a thousand plagues
- Make sport of it: oft builds the tiny mouse
- Her home, and plants her granary, underground,
- Or burrow for their bed the purblind moles,
- Or toad is found in hollows, and all the swarm
- Of earth's unsightly creatures; or a huge
- Corn-heap the weevil plunders, and the ant,
- Fearful of coming age and penury.
- Mark too, what time the walnut in the woods
- With ample bloom shall clothe her, and bow down
- Her odorous branches, if the fruit prevail,
- Like store of grain will follow, and there shall come
- A mighty winnowing-time with mighty heat;
- But if the shade with wealth of leaves abound,
- Vainly your threshing-floor will bruise the stalks
- Rich but in chaff. Many myself have seen
- Steep, as they sow, their pulse-seeds, drenching them
- With nitre and black oil-lees, that the fruit
- Might swell within the treacherous pods, and they
- Make speed to boil at howso small a fire.
- Yet, culled with caution, proved with patient toil,
- These have I seen degenerate, did not man
- Put forth his hand with power, and year by year
- Choose out the largest. So, by fate impelled,
- Speed all things to the worse, and backward borne
- Glide from us; even as who with struggling oars
- Up stream scarce pulls a shallop, if he chance
- His arms to slacken, lo! with headlong force
- The current sweeps him down the hurrying tide.