Flings itself up to catch the breeze, with reins All slacken'd sped through the clear sky-itself Must not be yet assail'd with the hook's edge, But cropp'd must be the leaves with talon'd hands,
And pick'd between. Next, when they now have clasp'd
The elms with stems robust, and sallied forth, Then strip their tresses, then their arms shear close;
Ere that they dread the steel. Then, finally,
Exert thy tyrant rule; and fetter close
Their boughs all wildly floating. Weav'd must be
The hedge moreo'er, and all the flock confin'd, Chief, while their brow is soft and knowing nought
Of travail. On it more than ruthless storm,
And potent Sol, do forest buffaloes
Besetting close, and persecuting kids
Play pranks; there browse upon it sheep,
And glutt'nous heifers. Nor such harm have
chills
Candied with hoary frost, or summer heat
On arid cliffs fierce striking, e'er inflicted,
As flocks, and venom of the iron fang,
And the scar scor'd upon the close gnaw'd stem.
Yea, for no other guilt at ev'ry shrine
To Bacchus immolated is the goat;
And antique revels enter on the stage,
And prizes for high wits, hamlets around
And crossways, have the Theseid race propos'd,
And 'midst carousals in the soft-sward meads,
Joyous have bounded o'er their bladders greas'd.
Nor do Ausonia's swains, a Troy-sprung tribe,
In rhymes uncouth, and laughter dissolute,
To gambol fail, and vizards grim assume
Of outscoop'd bark. And, Bacchus, thee they invoke
Throughout their hymns of gladness, and to thee Soft-swinging masks from the tall pine tree hang. Hence with o'er-gushing fruit each vine grove
Fill'd are both hollow vales, and deep-sunk glades,
And whereso'er the god hath veer'd around
His buxom head. Therefore, in order due
To Bacchus will we chant his meed of praise,
In songs ancestral, and our chargers bring,
And hallow'd cakes. And horn-led shall there
stand,
A victim curs'd, the he-goat at his shrine;
And juicy entrails will we roast on spits
Of hazel. There is, too, for dressing vines
That second toil - which never has enough
Of draining for each year must the whole soil Be cleav'd both thrice and four times, and the
With turnéd prongs eternally be crush'd,
And the whole grove be lighten'd of its leaf.
Returns unto the swains their toil propell'd
Into a circle; and the year pursuing
Its own foot-traces rolls into itself.
And now somewhile, when its late-clinging leaves
The vineyard has laid down; and breathing-cold
Boreas has shatter'd from the woods their pride,
E'en then alert into the coming year
The swain prolongs his care, and clipping close The abandoned vine with Saturn's curvéd fang, Pursues it, and with pruning moulds to shape. Be first thy ground to delve, the first to burn Thy brushwood carried home, and first thy stakes
To bring beneath thy roof. Be last to reap.
Twice on thy vines the umbrage gathers thick.
Twice do the weeds with thickly matted thorns
The crop o'er-canopy sore either toil.
Praise thou vast farms, a small one till thyself.
Nor fails too to be cut the thorny twigs
Of rusks throughout the wood, and on the banks
The river sedges, and the care employs us
Of withy bed uncultur'd: now are train'd
The vines, now brakes the sickle lay aside,
Now sings at reaching the last ranks of plants
The vine-dresser exhausted. Yet the ground
Must still be vexéd, and the dry mould stirr'd;
And Jove be dreaded now for rip'ning grapes.
Contrary-wise, for olives is requir'd
No culture. Nor do they the beak-curv'd hook
Expect, and griping harrows, when they once
Have grappled with the fields, and borne the airs.
E'en of herself abundantly doth earth,
When once with talon'd tooth it is unlock'd,
Moisture purvey, and with the ploughshare's aid
E'en weighty fruits. In this way do thou nurse
The rich and peace-lov'd olive. Apples, too,
Soon as they once have felt their trunks robust
And their due strength have reach'd, up to the
stars,
Snatching their way by their own power they struggle,
And needing nought our aid. Nor less, meanwhile,
With fruit each grove bows down; and the wild haunts
Of buds with blood-red berries crimson o'er.
Cropp'd are the cytisus'; the lofty wood
Torches supplies, and night-fires thence are fed,
And floods of light pour forth. And doubt we then
To plant and care bestow? Why loftier themes
Pursue? the willows and the lowly broom
E'en these supply or foliage for the flocks,
Or bow'rs for shepherds; and a hedge for plants,
And pasturage for honey. And 'tis sweet
To view Cytorus waving o'er with box,
And groves of fir Narycian.
Sweet it is
Fields to behold not unto rakes indebted,
Not to a single care of human hands.
E'en of themselves upon the pinnacled top
Of Caucasus, the sterile woods which still
The east winds fierce both crash and whirl away,
Give each a different produce: give the pines,
Timber for barks of service; for our halls
Both cypresses and cedar. Hence for wheels
Spokes have the farmers turn'd, hence drums for
wains,
And bending keels for vessels laid them down.
With twigs are willows rife, with foliage elms;
But with stout shafts the myrtle tree, and cornel
For battle good. To Iturean bows
The yews are twisted. Nor do polish'd limes
Or lathe-shav'd box refuse a shape to take,
And with sharp steel are channel'd. Nor the less
Swims too the boiling wave the alder light
Launch'd on the Po. Nor too the less do bees
Chamber their swarms both within hollow barks,
And in the core of some decaying holm.
What to be nam'd alike have boons of Bacchus
Produced? Bacchus e'en for crime has giv'n
Occasions. He it was laid low in death
The madd'ning Centaurs: Rhætus both, and
Pholus,
And with his mighty wassail bowl Hylæus
Menacing the Lapitha. O blest, too blest,
If their own good they knew, the husbandmen!
For whom spontaneous, far from discord's arms,
Pours from the soil an easy purchas'd food
Most righteous earth. What though in crowds
immense,
From gates of pride no lofty dome disgorges
From its whole halls a tide of morning greeters;
Nor gaze they open-mouth'd on portals chequer'd
With beauteous shell, and vestures trick'd with
gold,
And Ephyre's bronzes; nor is pallid fleece
Dusk'd with Assyrian venom, nor with cassia
Tainted the service of the crystal olive-
Yet care-purg'd rest, and life that knows not guile,
Rich in a varied wealth yet hours of ease In wide-spread farms-grottoes, and living pools
Yet gelid Tempes, and the lowing cries
Of kine, and slumbers soft beneath the tree,
Are wanting not. There forest-glades, and lairs
Of mountain-beasts, and youth of travail patient,
And to scant fare inur'd; hallow'd the rites
Of gods, and worshipp'd fathers. Last through
them
Did righteousness retiring from the earth
Her footsteps print. But me ere all may first
The Muses blest, whose mysteries I bear,
Smitten with love intense, take to their arms;
And all the paths of heaven and stars unveil
Sol's varied wanes, and Luna's travail pangs.
Whence shudd'ring comes on earth - beneath
what spell
Deep seas upheave them, with their barriers
burst,
And back into themselves spontaneous sink.
Why so in ocean haste to bathe the suns
Of winter, or what clog the slow nights checks.
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