Georgics

With burrowing plough-share, and ply up and down

Your labouring bullocks through the vineyard's midst,

Then too smooth reeds and shafts of whittled wand,

And ashen poles and sturdy forks to shape,

Whereby supported they may learn to mount,

Laugh at the gales, and through the elm-tops win

From story up to story.

Now while yet

The leaves are in their first fresh infant growth,

Forbear their frailty, and while yet the bough

Shoots joyfully toward heaven, with loosened rein

Launched on the void, assail it not as yet

With keen-edged sickle, but let the leaves alone

Be culled with clip of fingers here and there.

But when they clasp the elms with sturdy trunks

Erect, then strip the leaves off, prune the boughs;

Sooner they shrink from steel, but then put forth

The arm of power, and stem the branchy tide.

Hedges too must be woven and all beasts

Barred entrance, chiefly while the leaf is young

And witless of disaster; for therewith,

Beside harsh winters and o'erpowering sun,

Wild buffaloes and pestering goats for ay

Besport them, sheep and heifers glut their greed.

Nor cold by hoar-frost curdled, nor the prone

Dead weight of summer upon the parched crags,

So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite

Of their hard tooth, whose gnawing scars the stem.

For no offence but this to Bacchus bleeds

The goat at every altar, and old plays

Upon the stage find entrance; therefore too

The sons of Theseus through the country-side—

Hamlet and crossway—set the prize of wit,

And on the smooth sward over oiled skins

Dance in their tipsy frolic. Furthermore

The Ausonian swains, a race from Troy derived,

Make merry with rough rhymes and boisterous mirth,

Grim masks of hollowed bark assume, invoke

Thee with glad hymns, O Bacchus, and to thee

Hang puppet-faces on tall pines to swing.

Hence every vineyard teems with mellowing fruit,

Till hollow vale o'erflows, and gorge profound,

Where'er the god hath turned his comely head.

Therefore to Bacchus duly will we sing

Meet honour with ancestral hymns, and cates

And dishes bear him; and the doomed goat

Led by the horn shall at the altar stand,

Whose entrails rich on hazel-spits we'll roast.

This further task again, to dress the vine,

Hath needs beyond exhausting; the whole soil

Thrice, four times, yearly must be cleft, the sod

With hoes reversed be crushed continually,

The whole plantation lightened of its leaves.

Round on the labourer spins the wheel of toil,

As on its own track rolls the circling year.

Soon as the vine her lingering leaves hath shed,

And the chill north wind from the forests shook

Their coronal, even then the careful swain

Looks keenly forward to the coming year,

With Saturn's curved fang pursues and prunes

The vine forlorn, and lops it into shape.

Be first to dig the ground up, first to clear

And burn the refuse-branches, first to house

Again your vine-poles, last to gather fruit.

Twice doth the thickening shade beset the vine,

Twice weeds with stifling briers o'ergrow the crop;

And each a toilsome labour. Do thou praise

Broad acres, farm but few. Rough twigs beside

Of butcher's broom among the woods are cut,

And reeds upon the river-banks, and still

The undressed willow claims thy fostering care.

So now the vines are fettered, now the trees

Let go the sickle, and the last dresser now

Sings of his finished rows; but still the ground

Must vexed be, the dust be stirred, and heaven

Still set thee trembling for the ripened grapes.

Not so with olives; small husbandry need they,

Nor look for sickle bowed or biting rake,

When once they have gripped the soil, and borne the breeze.

Earth of herself, with hooked fang laid bare,

Yields moisture for the plants, and heavy fruit,

The ploughshare aiding; therewithal thou'lt rear

The olive's fatness well-beloved of Peace.

Apples, moreover, soon as first they feel

Their stems wax lusty, and have found their strength,

To heaven climb swiftly, self-impelled, nor crave

Our succour. All the grove meanwhile no less

With fruit is swelling, and the wild haunts of birds

Blush with their blood-red berries. Cytisus

Is good to browse on, the tall forest yields

Pine-torches, and the nightly fires are fed

And shoot forth radiance. And shall men be loath

To plant, nor lavish of their pains? Why trace

Things mightier? Willows even and lowly brooms

To cattle their green leaves, to shepherds shade,

Fences for crops, and food for honey yield.

And blithe it is Cytorus to behold

Waving with box, Narycian groves of pitch;

Oh! blithe the sight of fields beholden not

To rake or man's endeavour! the barren woods