Georgics
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- Not thus the tribes
- Of Scythia by the far Maeotic wave,
- Where turbid Ister whirls his yellow sands,
- And Rhodope stretched out beneath the pole
- Comes trending backward. There the herds they keep
- Close-pent in byres, nor any grass is seen
- Upon the plain, nor leaves upon the tree:
- But with snow-ridges and deep frost afar
- Heaped 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 dips
- In 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 clothes
- Stiffen upon the wearers; juicy wines
- They cleave with axes; to one frozen mass
- Whole pools are turned; and on their untrimmed beards
- Stiff clings the jagged icicle. Meanwhile
- All heaven no less is filled with falling snow;
- The cattle perish: oxen's mighty frames
- Stand island-like amid the frost, and stags
- In 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 dispatch
- Loud-bellowing, and with glad shouts hale them home.
- Themselves in deep-dug caverns underground
- Dwell free and careless; to their hearths they heave
- Oak-logs and elm-trees whole, and fire them there,
- There play the night out, and in festive glee
- With barm and service sour the wine-cup mock.
- So 'neath the seven-starred Hyperborean wain
- The folk live tameless, buffeted with blasts
- Of Eurus from Rhipaean hills, and wrap
- Their bodies in the tawny fells of beasts.
- If wool delight thee, first, be far removed
- All prickly boskage, burrs and caltrops; shun
- Luxuriant pastures; at the outset choose
- White flocks with downy fleeces. For the ram,
- How white soe'er himself, be but the tongue
- 'Neath his moist palate black, reject him, lest
- He 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 ear
- May trust the tale, Pan, God of Arcady,
- Snared and beguiled thee, Luna, calling thee
- To the deep woods; nor thou didst spurn his call.
- But who for milk hath longing, must himself
- Carry lucerne and lotus-leaves enow
- With salt herbs to the cote, whence more they love
- The streams, more stretch their udders, and give back
- A subtle taste of saltness in the milk.
- Many there be who from their mothers keep
- The new-born kids, and straightway bind their mouths
- With iron-tipped muzzles. What they milk at dawn,
- Or in the daylight hours, at night they press;
- What darkling or at sunset, this ere morn
- They bear away in baskets—for to town
- The shepherd hies him—or with dash of salt
- Just sprinkle, and lay by for winter use.