The Georgics

GEORGIC II

Thus far the tilth of fields and stars of heaven;Now will I sing thee, Bacchus, and, with thee,The forest's young plantations and the fruitOf slow-maturing olive. Hither haste,O Father of the wine-press; all things hereTeem with the bounties of thy hand; for theeWith viny autumn laden blooms the field,And foams the vintage high with brimming vats;Hither, O Father of the wine-press, come,And stripped of buskin stain thy bared limbsIn the new must with me.First, nature's lawFor generating trees is manifold;For some of their own force spontaneous spring,No hand of man compelling, and possessThe plains and river-windings far and wide,As pliant osier and the bending broom,Poplar, and willows in wan companiesWith green leaf glimmering gray; and some there beFrom chance-dropped seed that rear them, as the tallChestnuts, and, mightiest of the branching wood,Jove's Aesculus, and oaks, oracularDeemed by the Greeks of old. With some sprouts forthA forest of dense suckers from the root,As elms and cherries; so, too, a pigmy plant,Beneath its mother's mighty shade upshootsThe bay-tree of Parnassus. Such the modesNature imparted first; hence all the raceOf forest-trees and shrubs and sacred grovesSprings into verdure.Other means there are,Which use by method for itself acquired.One, sliving suckers from the tender frameOf the tree-mother, plants them in the trench;One buries the bare stumps within his field,Truncheons cleft four-wise, or sharp-pointed stakes;Some forest-trees the layer's bent arch await,And slips yet quick within the parent-soil;No root need others, nor doth the pruner's handShrink to restore the topmost shoot to earthThat gave it being. Nay, marvellous to tell,Lopped of its limbs, the olive, a mere stock,Still thrusts its root out from the sapless wood,And oft the branches of one kind we seeChange to another's with no loss to rue,Pear-tree transformed the ingrafted apple yield,And stony cornels on the plum-tree blush.Come then, and learn what tilth to each belongsAccording to their kinds, ye husbandmen,And tame with culture the wild fruits, lest earthLie idle. O blithe to make all IsmarusOne forest of the wine-god, and to clotheWith olives huge Tabernus! And be thouAt hand, and with me ply the voyage of toilI am bound on, O my glory, O thou that artJustly the chiefest portion of my fame,Maecenas, and on this wide ocean launchedSpread sail like wings to waft thee. Not that IWith my poor verse would comprehend the whole,Nay, though a hundred tongues, a hundred mouthsWere mine, a voice of iron; be thou at hand,Skirt but the nearer coast-line; see the shoreIs in our grasp; not now with feigned songThrough winding bouts and tedious preludingsShall I detain thee.Those that lift their headInto the realms of light spontaneously,Fruitless indeed, but blithe and strenuous spring,Since Nature lurks within the soil. And yetEven these, should one engraft them, or transplantTo well-drilled trenches, will anon put ofTheir woodland temper, and, by frequent tilth,To whatso craft thou summon them, make speedTo follow. So likewise will the barren shaftThat from the stock-root issueth, if it beSet out with clear space amid open fields:Now the tree-mother's towering leaves and boughsDarken, despoil of increase as it grows,And blast it in the bearing. Lastly, thatWhich from shed seed ariseth, upward winsBut slowly, yielding promise of its shadeTo late-born generations; apples waneForgetful of their former juice, the grapeBears sorry clusters, for the birds a prey.Soothly on all must toil be spent, and allTrained to the trench and at great cost subdued.But reared from truncheons olives answer best,As vines from layers, and from the solid woodThe Paphian myrtles; while from suckers springBoth hardy hazels and huge ash, the treeThat rims with shade the brows of Hercules,And acorns dear to the Chaonian sire:So springs the towering palm too, and the firDestined to spy the dangers of the deep.But the rough arbutus with walnut-fruitIs grafted; so have barren planes ere nowStout apples borne, with chestnut-flower the beech,The mountain-ash with pear-bloom whitened o'er,And swine crunched acorns 'neath the boughs of elms.Nor is the method of inserting eyesAnd grafting one: for where the buds push forthAmidst the bark, and burst the membranes thin,Even on the knot a narrow rift is made,Wherein from some strange tree a germ they pen,And to the moist rind bid it cleave and grow.Or, otherwise, in knotless trunks is hewnA breach, and deep into the solid grainA path with wedges cloven; then fruitful slipsAre set herein, and- no long time- behold!To heaven upshot with teeming boughs, the treeStrange leaves admires and fruitage not its own.Nor of one kind alone are sturdy elms,Willow and lotus, nor the cypress-treesOf Ida; nor of self-same fashion springFat olives, orchades, and radiiAnd bitter-berried pausians, no, nor yetApples and the forests of Alcinous;Nor from like cuttings are Crustumian pearsAnd Syrian, and the heavy hand-fillers.Not the same vintage from our trees hangs down,Which Lesbos from Methymna's tendril plucks.Vines Thasian are there, Mareotids white,These apt for richer soils, for lighter those:Psithian for raisin-wine more useful, thinLageos, that one day will try the feetAnd tie the tongue: purples and early-ripes,And how, O Rhaetian, shall I hymn thy praise?Yet cope not therefore with Falernian bins.Vines Aminaean too, best-bodied wine,To which the Tmolian bows him, ay, and kingPhanaeus too, and, lesser of that name,Argitis, wherewith not a grape can vieFor gush of wine-juice or for length of years.Nor thee must I pass over, vine of Rhodes,Welcomed by gods and at the second board,Nor thee, Bumastus, with plump clusters swollen.But lo! how many kinds, and what their names,There is no telling, nor doth it boot to tell;Who lists to know it, he too would list to learnHow many sand-grains are by Zephyr tossedOn Libya's plain, or wot, when Eurus fallsWith fury on the ships, how many wavesCome rolling shoreward from the Ionian sea.Not that all soils can all things bear alike.Willows by water-courses have their birth,Alders in miry fens; on rocky heightsThe barren mountain-ashes; on the shoreMyrtles throng gayest; Bacchus, lastly, lovesThe bare hillside, and yews the north wind's chill.Mark too the earth by outland tillers tamed,And Eastern homes of Arabs, and tattooedGeloni; to all trees their native landsAllotted are; no clime but India bearsBlack ebony; the branch of frankincenseIs Saba's sons' alone; why tell to theeOf balsams oozing from the perfumed wood,Or berries of acanthus ever green?Of Aethiop forests hoar with downy wool,Or how the Seres comb from off the leavesTheir silky fleece? Of groves which India bears,Ocean's near neighbour, earth's remotest nook,Where not an arrow-shot can cleave the airAbove their tree-tops? yet no laggards they,When girded with the quiver! Media yieldsThe bitter juices and slow-lingering tasteOf the blest citron-fruit, than which no aidComes timelier, when fierce step-dames drug the cupWith simples mixed and spells of baneful power,To drive the deadly poison from the limbs.Large the tree's self in semblance like a bay,And, showered it not a different scent abroad,A bay it had been; for no wind of heavenIts foliage falls; the flower, none faster, clings;With it the Medes for sweetness lave the lips,And ease the panting breathlessness of age.But no, not Mede-land with its wealth of woods,Nor Ganges fair, and Hermus thick with gold,Can match the praise of Italy; nor Ind,Nor Bactria, nor Panchaia, one wide tractOf incense-teeming sand. Here never bullsWith nostrils snorting fire upturned the sodSown with the monstrous dragon's teeth, nor cropOf warriors bristled thick with lance and helm;But heavy harvests and the Massic juiceOf Bacchus fill its borders, overspreadWith fruitful flocks and olives. Hence aroseThe war-horse stepping proudly o'er the plain;Hence thy white flocks, Clitumnus, and the bull,Of victims mightiest, which full oft have led,Bathed in thy sacred stream, the triumph-pompOf Romans to the temples of the gods.Here blooms perpetual spring, and summer hereIn months that are not summer's; twice teem the flocks;Twice doth the tree yield service of her fruit.But ravening tigers come not nigh, nor breedOf savage lion, nor aconite betraysIts hapless gatherers, nor with sweep so vastDoth the scaled serpent trail his endless coilsAlong the ground, or wreathe him into spires.Mark too her cities, so many and so proud,Of mighty toil the achievement, town on townUp rugged precipices heaved and reared,And rivers undergliding ancient walls.Or should I celebrate the sea that lavesHer upper shores and lower? or those broad lakes?Thee, Larius, greatest and, Benacus, theeWith billowy uproar surging like the main?Or sing her harbours, and the barrier castAthwart the Lucrine, and how ocean chafesWith mighty bellowings, where the Julian waveEchoes the thunder of his rout, and throughAvernian inlets pours the Tuscan tide?A land no less that in her veins displaysRivers of silver, mines of copper ore,Ay, and with gold hath flowed abundantly.A land that reared a valiant breed of men,The Marsi and Sabellian youth, and, schooledTo hardship, the Ligurian, and with theseThe Volscian javelin-armed, the Decii too,The Marii and Camilli, names of might,The Scipios, stubborn warriors, ay, and thee,Great Caesar, who in Asia's utmost boundsWith conquering arm e'en now art fending farThe unwarlike Indian from the heights of Rome.Hail! land of Saturn, mighty mother thouOf fruits and heroes; 'tis for thee I dareUnseal the sacred fountains, and essayThemes of old art and glory, as I singThe song of Ascra through the towns of Rome.Now for the native gifts of various soils,What powers hath each, what hue, what natural bentFor yielding increase. First your stubborn landsAnd churlish hill-sides, where are thorny fieldsOf meagre marl and gravel, these delightIn long-lived olive-groves to Pallas dear.Take for a sign the plenteous growth hard byOf oleaster, and the fields strewn wideWith woodland berries. But a soil that's rich,In moisture sweet exulting, and the plainThat teems with grasses on its fruitful breast,Such as full oft in hollow mountain-dellWe view beneath us- from the craggy heightsStreams thither flow with fertilizing mud-A plain which southward rising feeds the fernBy curved ploughs detested, this one dayShall yield thee store of vines full strong to gushIn torrents of the wine-god; this shall beFruitful of grapes and flowing juice like thatWe pour to heaven from bowls of gold, what timeThe sleek Etruscan at the altar blowsHis ivory pipe, and on the curved dishWe lay the reeking entrails. If to rearCattle delight thee rather, steers, or lambs,Or goats that kill the tender plants, then seekFull-fed Tarentum's glades and distant fields,Or such a plain as luckless Mantua lostWhose weedy water feeds the snow-white swan:There nor clear springs nor grass the flocks will fail,And all the day-long browsing of thy herdsShall the cool dews of one brief night repair.Land which the burrowing share shows dark and rich,With crumbling soil- for this we counterfeitIn ploughing- for corn is goodliest; from no fieldMore wains thou'lt see wend home with plodding steers;Or that from which the husbandman in spleenHas cleared the timber, and o'erthrown the copseThat year on year lay idle, and from the rootsUptorn the immemorial haunt of birds;They banished from their nests have sought the skies;But the rude plain beneath the ploughshare's strokeStarts into sudden brightness. For indeedThe starved hill-country gravel scarce serves the beesWith lowly cassias and with rosemary;Rough tufa and chalk too, by black water-wormsGnawed through and through, proclaim no soils besideSo rife with serpent-dainties, or that yieldSuch winding lairs to lurk in. That again,Which vapoury mist and flitting smoke exhales,Drinks moisture up and casts it forth at will,Which, ever in its own green grass arrayed,Mars not the metal with salt scurf of rust-That shall thine elms with merry vines enwreathe;That teems with olive; that shall thy tilth prove kindTo cattle, and patient of the curved share.Such ploughs rich Capua, such the coast that skirtsThy ridge, Vesuvius, and the Clanian flood,Acerrae's desolation and her bane.How each to recognize now hear me tell.Dost ask if loose or passing firm it be-Since one for corn hath liking, one for wine,The firmer sort for Ceres, none too looseFor thee, Lyaeus?– with scrutinizing eyeFirst choose thy ground, and bid a pit be sunkDeep in the solid earth, then cast the mouldAll back again, and stamp the surface smooth.If it suffice not, loose will be the land,More meet for cattle and for kindly vines;But if, rebellious, to its proper boundsThe soil returns not, but fills all the trenchAnd overtops it, then the glebe is gross;Look for stiff ridges and reluctant clods,And with strong bullocks cleave the fallow crust.Salt ground again, and bitter, as 'tis called-Barren for fruits, by tilth untamable,Nor grape her kind, nor apples their good nameMaintaining- will in this wise yield thee proof:Stout osier-baskets from the rafter-smoke,And strainers of the winepress pluck thee down;Hereinto let that evil land, with freshSpring-water mixed, be trampled to the full;The moisture, mark you, will ooze all away,In big drops issuing through the osier-withes,But plainly will its taste the secret tell,And with a harsh twang ruefully distortThe mouths of them that try it. Rich soil againWe learn on this wise: tossed from hand to handYet cracks it never, but pitch-like, as we hold,Clings to the fingers. A land with moisture rifeBreeds lustier herbage, and is more than meetProlific. Ah I may never such for meO'er-fertile prove, or make too stout a showAt the first earing! Heavy land or lightThe mute self-witness of its weight betrays.A glance will serve to warn thee which is black,Or what the hue of any. But hard it isTo track the signs of that pernicious cold:Pines only, noxious yews, and ivies darkAt times reveal its traces.All these rulesRegarding, let your land, ay, long before,Scorch to the quick, and into trenches carveThe mighty mountains, and their upturned clodsBare to the north wind, ere thou plant thereinThe vine's prolific kindred. Fields whose soilIs crumbling are the best: winds look to that,And bitter hoar-frosts, and the delver's toilUntiring, as he stirs the loosened glebe.But those, whose vigilance no care escapes,Search for a kindred site, where first to rearA nursery for the trees, and eke wheretoSoon to translate them, lest the sudden shockFrom their new mother the young plants estrange.Nay, even the quarter of the sky they brandUpon the bark, that each may be restored,As erst it stood, here bore the southern heats,Here turned its shoulder to the northern pole;So strong is custom formed in early years.Whether on hill or plain 'tis best to plantYour vineyard first inquire. If on some plainYou measure out rich acres, then plant thick;Thick planting makes no niggard of the vine;But if on rising mound or sloping bill,Then let the rows have room, so none the lessEach line you draw, when all the trees are set,May tally to perfection. Even as oftIn mighty war, whenas the legion's lengthDeploys its cohorts, and the column standsIn open plain, the ranks of battle set,And far and near with rippling sheen of armsThe wide earth flickers, nor yet in grisly strifeFoe grapples foe, but dubious 'twixt the hostsThe war-god wavers; so let all be rangedIn equal rows symmetric, not aloneTo feed an idle fancy with the view,But since not otherwise will earth affordVigour to all alike, nor yet the boughsHave power to stretch them into open space.Shouldst haply of the furrow's depth inquire,Even to a shallow trench I dare commitThe vine; but deeper in the ground is fixedThe tree that props it, aesculus in chief,Which howso far its summit soars toward heaven,So deep strikes root into the vaults of hell.It therefore neither storms, nor blasts, nor showersWrench from its bed; unshaken it abides,Sees many a generation, many an ageOf men roll onward, and survives them all,Stretching its titan arms and branches far,Sole central pillar of a world of shade.Nor toward the sunset let thy vineyards slope,Nor midst the vines plant hazel; neither takeThe topmost shoots for cuttings, nor from the topOf the supporting tree your suckers tear;So deep their love of earth; nor wound the plantsWith blunted blade; nor truncheons intersperseOf the wild olive: for oft from careless swainsA spark hath fallen, that, 'neath the unctuous rindHid thief-like first, now grips the tough tree-bole,And mounting to the leaves on high, sends forthA roar to heaven, then coursing through the boughsAnd airy summits reigns victoriously,Wraps all the grove in robes of fire, and grossWith pitch-black vapour heaves the murky reekSkyward, but chiefly if a storm has swoopedDown on the forest, and a driving windRolls up the conflagration. When 'tis so,Their root-force fails them, nor, when lopped away,Can they recover, and from the earth beneathSpring to like verdure; thus alone survivesThe bare wild olive with its bitter leaves.Let none persuade thee, howso weighty-wise,To stir the soil when stiff with Boreas' breath.Then ice-bound winter locks the fields, nor letsThe young plant fix its frozen root to earth.Best sow your vineyards when in blushing SpringComes the white bird long-bodied snakes abhor,Or on the eve of autumn's earliest frost,Ere the swift sun-steeds touch the wintry Signs,While summer is departing. Spring it isBlesses the fruit-plantation, Spring the groves;In Spring earth swells and claims the fruitful seed.Then Aether, sire omnipotent, leaps downWith quickening showers to his glad wife's embrace,And, might with might commingling, rears to lifeAll germs that teem within her; then resoundWith songs of birds the greenwood-wildernesses,And in due time the herds their loves renew;Then the boon earth yields increase, and the fieldsUnlock their bosoms to the warm west winds;Soft moisture spreads o'er all things, and the bladesFace the new suns, and safely trust them now;The vine-shoot, fearless of the rising south,Or mighty north winds driving rain from heaven,Bursts into bud, and every leaf unfolds.Even so, methinks, when Earth to being sprang,Dawned the first days, and such the course they held;'Twas Spring-tide then, ay, Spring, the mighty worldWas keeping: Eurus spared his wintry blasts,When first the flocks drank sunlight, and a raceOf men like iron from the hard glebe arose,And wild beasts thronged the woods, and stars the heaven.Nor could frail creatures bear this heavy strain,Did not so large a respite interpose'Twixt frost and heat, and heaven's relenting armsYield earth a welcome.For the rest, whate'erThe sets thou plantest in thy fields, thereonStrew refuse rich, and with abundant earthTake heed to hide them, and dig in withalRough shells or porous stone, for therebetweenWill water trickle and fine vapour creep,And so the plants their drooping spirits raise.Aye, and there have been, who with weight of stoneOr heavy potsherd press them from above;This serves for shield in pelting showers, and thisWhen the hot dog-star chaps the fields with drought.The slips once planted, yet remains to cleaveThe earth about their roots persistently,And toss the cumbrous hoes, or task the soilWith burrowing plough-share, and ply up and downYour 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 winFrom story up to story.Now while yetThe leaves are in their first fresh infant growth,Forbear their frailty, and while yet the boughShoots joyfully toward heaven, with loosened reinLaunched on the void, assail it not as yetWith keen-edged sickle, but let the leaves aloneBe culled with clip of fingers here and there.But when they clasp the elms with sturdy trunksErect, then strip the leaves off, prune the boughs;Sooner they shrink from steel, but then put forthThe arm of power, and stem the branchy tide.Hedges too must be woven and all beastsBarred entrance, chiefly while the leaf is youngAnd witless of disaster; for therewith,Beside harsh winters and o'erpowering sun,Wild buffaloes and pestering goats for ayBesport them, sheep and heifers glut their greed.Nor cold by hoar-frost curdled, nor the proneDead weight of summer upon the parched crags,So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-biteOf their hard tooth, whose gnawing scars the stem.For no offence but this to Bacchus bleedsThe goat at every altar, and old playsUpon the stage find entrance; therefore tooThe sons of Theseus through the country-side-Hamlet and crossway- set the prize of wit,And on the smooth sward over oiled skinsDance in their tipsy frolic. FurthermoreThe Ausonian swains, a race from Troy derived,Make merry with rough rhymes and boisterous mirth,Grim masks of hollowed bark assume, invokeThee with glad hymns, O Bacchus, and to theeHang 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 singMeet honour with ancestral hymns, and catesAnd dishes bear him; and the doomed goatLed 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 soilThrice, four times, yearly must be cleft, the sodWith 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 shookTheir coronal, even then the careful swainLooks keenly forward to the coming year,With Saturn's curved fang pursues and prunesThe vine forlorn, and lops it into shape.Be first to dig the ground up, first to clearAnd burn the refuse-branches, first to houseAgain 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 praiseBroad acres, farm but few. Rough twigs besideOf butcher's broom among the woods are cut,And reeds upon the river-banks, and stillThe undressed willow claims thy fostering care.So now the vines are fettered, now the treesLet go the sickle, and the last dresser nowSings of his finished rows; but still the groundMust vexed be, the dust be stirred, and heavenStill 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 rearThe olive's fatness well-beloved of Peace.Apples, moreover, soon as first they feelTheir stems wax lusty, and have found their strength,To heaven climb swiftly, self-impelled, nor craveOur succour. All the grove meanwhile no lessWith fruit is swelling, and the wild haunts of birdsBlush with their blood-red berries. CytisusIs good to browse on, the tall forest yieldsPine-torches, and the nightly fires are fedAnd shoot forth radiance. And shall men be loathTo plant, nor lavish of their pains? Why traceThings mightier? Willows even and lowly broomsTo cattle their green leaves, to shepherds shade,Fences for crops, and food for honey yield.And blithe it is Cytorus to beholdWaving with box, Narycian groves of pitch;Oh! blithe the sight of fields beholden notTo rake or man's endeavour! the barren woodsThat crown the scalp of Caucasus, even these,Which furious blasts for ever rive and rend,Yield various wealth, pine-logs that serve for ships,Cedar and cypress for the homes of men;Hence, too, the farmers shave their wheel-spokes, henceDrums for their wains, and curved boat-keels fit;Willows bear twigs enow, the elm-tree leaves,Myrtle stout spear-shafts, war-tried cornel too;Yews into Ituraean bows are bent:Nor do smooth lindens or lathe-polished boxShrink from man's shaping and keen-furrowing steel;Light alder floats upon the boiling floodSped down the Padus, and bees house their swarmsIn rotten holm-oak's hollow bark and bole.What of like praise can Bacchus' gifts afford?Nay, Bacchus even to crime hath prompted, heThe wine-infuriate Centaurs quelled with death,Rhoetus and Pholus, and with mighty bowlHylaeus threatening high the Lapithae.Oh! all too happy tillers of the soil,Could they but know their blessedness, for whomFar from the clash of arms all-equal earthPours from the ground herself their easy fare!What though no lofty palace portal-proudFrom all its chambers vomits forth a tideOf morning courtiers, nor agape they gazeOn pillars with fair tortoise-shell inwrought,Gold-purfled robes, and bronze from Ephyre;Nor is the whiteness of their wool distainedWith drugs Assyrian, nor clear olive's useWith cassia tainted; yet untroubled calm,A life that knows no falsehood, rich enowWith various treasures, yet broad-acred ease,Grottoes and living lakes, yet Tempes cool,Lowing of kine, and sylvan slumbers soft,They lack not; lawns and wild beasts' haunts are there,A youth of labour patient, need-inured,Worship, and reverend sires: with them from earthDeparting justice her last footprints left.Me before all things may the Muses sweet,Whose rites I bear with mighty passion pierced,Receive, and show the paths and stars of heaven,The sun's eclipses and the labouring moons,From whence the earthquake, by what power the seasSwell from their depths, and, every barrier burst,Sink back upon themselves, why winter-sunsSo haste to dip 'neath ocean, or what checkThe lingering night retards. But if to theseHigh realms of nature the cold curdling bloodAbout my heart bar access, then be fieldsAnd stream-washed vales my solace, let me loveRivers and woods, inglorious. Oh for youPlains, and Spercheius, and Taygete,By Spartan maids o'er-revelled! Oh, for one,Would set me in deep dells of Haemus cool,And shield me with his boughs' o'ershadowing might!Happy, who had the skill to understandNature's hid causes, and beneath his feetAll terrors cast, and death's relentless doom,And the loud roar of greedy Acheron.Blest too is he who knows the rural gods,Pan, old Silvanus, and the sister-nymphs!Him nor the rods of public power can bend,Nor kingly purple, nor fierce feud that drivesBrother to turn on brother, nor descentOf Dacian from the Danube's leagued flood,Nor Rome's great State, nor kingdoms like to die;Nor hath he grieved through pitying of the poor,Nor envied him that hath. What fruit the boughs,And what the fields, of their own bounteous willHave borne, he gathers; nor iron rule of laws,Nor maddened Forum have his eyes beheld,Nor archives of the people. Others vexThe darksome gulfs of Ocean with their oars,Or rush on steel: they press within the courtsAnd doors of princes; one with havoc fallsUpon a city and its hapless hearths,From gems to drink, on Tyrian rugs to lie;This hoards his wealth and broods o'er buried gold;One at the rostra stares in blank amaze;One gaping sits transported by the cheers,The answering cheers of plebs and senate rolledAlong the benches: bathed in brothers' bloodMen revel, and, all delights of hearth and homeFor exile changing, a new country seekBeneath an alien sun. The husbandmanWith hooked ploughshare turns the soil; from henceSprings his year's labour; hence, too, he sustainsCountry and cottage homestead, and from henceHis herds of cattle and deserving steers.No respite! still the year o'erflows with fruit,Or young of kine, or Ceres' wheaten sheaf,With crops the furrow loads, and bursts the barns.Winter is come: in olive-mills they bruiseThe Sicyonian berry; acorn-cheeredThe swine troop homeward; woods their arbutes yield;So, various fruit sheds Autumn, and high upOn sunny rocks the mellowing vintage bakes.Meanwhile about his lips sweet children cling;His chaste house keeps its purity; his kineDrop milky udders, and on the lush green grassFat kids are striving, horn to butting horn.Himself keeps holy days; stretched o'er the sward,Where round the fire his comrades crown the bowl,He pours libation, and thy name invokes,Lenaeus, and for the herdsmen on an elmSets up a mark for the swift javelin; theyStrip their tough bodies for the rustic sport.Such life of yore the ancient Sabines led,Such Remus and his brother: Etruria thus,Doubt not, to greatness grew, and Rome becameThe fair world's fairest, and with circling wallClasped to her single breast the sevenfold hills.Ay, ere the reign of Dicte's king, ere men,Waxed godless, banqueted on slaughtered bulls,Such life on earth did golden Saturn lead.Nor ear of man had heard the war-trump's blast,Nor clang of sword on stubborn anvil set.But lo! a boundless space we have travelled o'er;'Tis time our steaming horses to unyoke.