Georgics

Its Roman name Asilus, by the Greeks

Termed Oestros—fierce it is, and harshly hums,

Driving whole herds in terror through the groves,

Till heaven is madded by their bellowing din,

And Tanager's dry bed and forest-banks.

With this same scourge did Juno wreak of old

The terrors of her wrath, a plague devised

Against the heifer sprung from Inachus.

From this too thou, since in the noontide heats

'Tis most persistent, fend thy teeming herds,

And feed them when the sun is newly risen,

Or the first stars are ushering in the night.

But, yeaning ended, all their tender care

Is to the calves transferred; at once with marks

They brand them, both to designate their race,

And which to rear for breeding, or devote

As altar-victims, or to cleave the ground

And into ridges tear and turn the sod.

The rest along the greensward graze at will.

Those that to rustic uses thou wouldst mould,

As calves encourage and take steps to tame,

While pliant wills and plastic youth allow.

And first of slender withies round the throat

Loose collars hang, then when their free-born necks

Are used to service, with the self-same bands

Yoke them in pairs, and steer by steer compel

Keep pace together. And time it is that oft

Unfreighted wheels be drawn along the ground

Behind them, as to dint the surface-dust;

Then let the beechen axle strain and creak

'Neath some stout burden, whilst a brazen pole

Drags on the wheels made fast thereto. Meanwhile

For their unbroken youth not grass alone,

Nor meagre willow-leaves and marish-sedge,

But corn-ears with thy hand pluck from the crops.

Nor shall the brood-kine, as of yore, for thee

Brim high the snowy milking-pail, but spend

Their udders' fullness on their own sweet young.

But if fierce squadrons and the ranks of war

Delight thee rather, or on wheels to glide

At Pisa, with Alpheus fleeting by,

And in the grove of Jupiter urge on

The flying chariot, be your steed's first task

To face the warrior's armed rage, and brook

The trumpet, and long roar of rumbling wheels,

And clink of chiming bridles in the stall;

Then more and more to love his master's voice

Caressing, or loud hand that claps his neck.

Ay, thus far let him learn to dare, when first

Weaned from his mother, and his mouth at times

Yield to the supple halter, even while yet

Weak, tottering-limbed, and ignorant of life.

But, three years ended, when the fourth arrives,

Now let him tarry not to run the ring

With rhythmic hoof-beat echoing, and now learn

Alternately to curve each bending leg,

And be like one that struggleth; then at last

Challenge the winds to race him, and at speed

Launched through the open, like a reinless thing,

Scarce print his footsteps on the surface-sand.

As when with power from Hyperborean climes

The north wind stoops, and scatters from his path

Dry clouds and storms of Scythia; the tall corn

And 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 course

Of Elis at the goal will sweat, and shower

Red foam-flakes from his mouth, or, kindlier task,

With patient neck support the Belgian car.

Then, broken at last, let swell their burly frame

With fattening corn-mash, for, unbroke, they will

With pride wax wanton, and, when caught, refuse

Tough lash to brook or jagged curb obey.

But no device so fortifies their power

As love's blind stings of passion to forefend,

Whether on steed or steer thy choice be set.

Ay, therefore 'tis they banish bulls afar

To solitary pastures, or behind

Some mountain-barrier, or broad streams beyond,

Or else in plenteous stalls pen fast at home.

For, even through sight of her, the female wastes

His strength with smouldering fire, till he forget

Both grass and woodland. She indeed full oft

With her sweet charms can lovers proud compel

To 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-side

And far Olympus bellow back the roar.

Nor wont the champions in one stall to couch;

But he that's worsted hies him to strange climes

Far off, an exile, moaning much the shame,

The blows of that proud conqueror, then love's loss

Avenged not; with one glance toward the byre,

His ancient royalties behind him lie.

So with all heed his strength he practiseth,