Georgics

And summits of Lycaeus, and rough briers,

And brakes that love the highland: of themselves

Right heedfully the she-goats homeward troop

Before their kids, and with plump udders clogged

Scarce cross the threshold. Wherefore rather ye,

The less they crave man's vigilance, be fain

From ice to fend them and from snowy winds;

Bring food and feast them with their branchy fare,

Nor lock your hay-loft all the winter long.

But when glad summer at the west wind's call

Sends either flock to pasture in the glades,

Soon as the day-star shineth, hie we then

To the cool meadows, while the dawn is young,

The grass yet hoary, and to browsing herds

The dew tastes sweetest on the tender sward.

When heaven's fourth hour draws on the thickening drought,

And shrill cicalas pierce the brake with song,

Then at the well-springs bid them, or deep pools,

From troughs of holm-oak quaff the running wave:

But at day's hottest seek a shadowy vale,

Where some vast ancient-timbered oak of Jove

Spreads his huge branches, or where huddling black

Ilex on ilex cowers in awful shade.

Then once more give them water sparingly,

And feed once more, till sunset, when cool eve

Allays the air, and dewy moonbeams slake

The forest glades, with halcyon's song the shore,

And every thicket with the goldfinch rings.

Of Libya's shepherds why the tale pursue?

Why sing their pastures and the scattered huts

They house in? Oft their cattle day and night

Graze the whole month together, and go forth

Into far deserts where no shelter is,

So flat the plain and boundless. All his goods

The Afric swain bears with him, house and home,

Arms, Cretan quiver, and Amyclaean dog;

As some keen Roman in his country's arms

Plies the swift march beneath a cruel load;

Soon with tents pitched and at his post he stands,

Ere looked for by the foe.

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,