The Farm and Fruit of Old/Book the Second

by Virgil

 

BOOK THE SECOND.

hus far of tillage, and the starry signs—
Now thee I sing, great Bacchus, god of vines,
The birth, moreover, of the greenwood-tree,
And slow-grown olive, I will sing with thee.
Lenæan father, visit us awhile; 5
Here all the world is smiling in thy smile;
The vine presents her Autumn to thy sip,
And foams the vintage o'er the wine-tub's lip;
Lenæan father, come, and, buskin-free,
Imbrue thy feet in purple must with me. 10
First, different trees have divers birth assign'd;
For some lack no compulsion of mankind,
But spring spontaneously in every nook,
Peopling the meadows and the mazy brook;
Thus osiers lithe, and brooms that gently play,
The poplar, and the willow silver-grey. 16
And some arise from seed themselves have shed;
For so the chesnut rears its lofty head,
The bay-oak, towering monarch of the wood,
And Grecian oaks with oracles endued. 20
But others densely stool up from the root,
A forest new, as elms and cherries shoot;
Nay, even thus the young Parnassian bay,
Beneath the mother's shadow, feels her way. 24
These methods nature gave; hence all the sheen
Of woods, and shrubs, and bowery chapels green.
But other modes there are which practice hath
Discover'd for herself on labour's path. 28
Shoots from the mother's tender form, with skill,
One gardener trims, and plants along the drill;
Another roughly buries stocks uncut,
And stakes four -cleft, and poles with sharpen'd butt.
Some trees demand the arching layer's coil,
And thriving nurseries in the mother soil.
Some lack no root, no pruner need mistrust 35
To lay the leader in its native dust.
Nay more, the olive-stump is cleft in twain,
And, strange to tell, the dry wood roots again!
And oft the branches of one tree we find
Saucily alter'd to another kind, 40
On wild pear-stocks engrafted pippins come,
And stony cornels blush upon the plum.
Then list, ye swains, the culture I describe
For each, according to his class and tribe:
By culture tame the wildings, and convert, 45
Nor let an inch of surface lie inert:
Ismarian crags enamel with the vine,
And drape with olive mount Taburno's line.
Ho thou, Mæcenas! great and glorious name,
By right and fact, my better half of fame, 50
Be nigh, be pilot of the voyage with me;
A flowing sheet upon so broad a sea.
Not all things would I grasp that I can feel,
Though hundred tongues were mine and voice of steel.
Come thou, and hug the very brink of land; 55
Safe in the arms of mother earth we stay,
I will not mock thee with romantic lay,
Through many a winding and premisals grand.
The trees that spring, with no man to invite,
And climb spontaneous to the shores of light,
Unfruitful are, but lusty from their birth, 61
Because strong nature underlies the earth.
Yet even these, if grafted well or moved,
And set in trenches with the soil improved,
Cast by their wildwood mind, and nursed in ease,
Come blithely into any plan you please. 66
Nay, barren suckers from the root will bear
When planted out with liberal space and air:
Their mother's foliage shrouds them now in gloom, 69
And robs the growing buds, and starves the bloom.
Meanwhile the seedling tree maturely climbs,
A canopy for men of distant times:
Degenerate fruits forget their taste and shape,
And birds make boot upon the worthless grape.
So all cost trouble, all must be compell'd 75
To keep their line, by constant labour quell'd.
But olives answer better from the stock,
And Paphian myrtles from the solid block;
The vine from layers, and from offsets spring
Hard hazels, and the ash the forest-king, 80
The tree whose chaplets shade Alcides' brow,
And Chaon Father's mast-producing bough:
And thus the lofty palm bedecks the plain,
And fir design'd for hardships on the main.
But nuts are grafted on the rough arbute, 85
And barren planes bear apple-trees in fruit:
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$With chesnut bloom the beech is silver-laid,
The mountain-ash in white pear-flowers array'd,
And swine crunch acorns in the elm-tree shade.
Nor is the mode to bud and graft the same—
For where the buds, (like emeralds in their frame,)
Push'd forth the bark, their filmy jerkins split,
A narrow eyelet through the crown is slit;
Herein the germ, a stranger, they compress,
And teach with juicy rind to coalesce. 95
To graft—the knotless trunks are lopp'd amain,
And cleft with wedges deep into the grain,
Then fruitful scions are enclosed; nor long
Till a great tree with laughing boughs leaps out,
And looks up with astonishment and doubt, 100
At stranger leaves, and fruit that must be wrong.
Nay, passing that, more kinds than one there be
Of elm and willow, lote and cypress tree:
Plump olives, too, distinctive features own,
Orchads, and Rays, and Bruisers tart of tone. 105
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$So apples and Phæacian orchards gleam
With divers hues; and pears diversely teem,
Crustumian, Syrian, and the big voleme.
A different grape bedecks these elms of ours
Than Lesbos gathers in Methymna's bowers; 110
And Thasian vines there are, and Mareots white,
One fit for heavy land, and one for light:
And Psythian best for raisins, and Lagene
(Shrewd sort to test the feet and tongue, I ween);
Purple, and Rathripe; Rhætic, too, shall earn
My proudest verse, yet challenge not Falern! 116
Vines Aminæan, sound and staunch of juice,
And those where Tmolus towers and king Phaneus;
And small Argitis, which no rival fears,
To gush so full, or keep so many years. 120
And shall I slight, ye gods of the repast,
Your Rhodian pet, and turgid-bunch'd Bumast?
But hold—ye kinds that urge unnumber'd claims—
What use to give a catalogue of names?
Who seeks to learn it, let him score the sand 125
The west wind hurls upon the Libyan strand,
Or, when east winds upon the roadstead roar,
Ionian surges rolling to the shore.
Not every soil will every tree adorn;
The willows by the river marge are born,
The alders still the fat morass prefer, 130
The barren wild-ash loves the mountain spur:
The shores with myrtle laugh; the grape-vines woo
The upland sun, north winds and frost the yew.
Now mark the world and them that dwell therein— 135
Her utmost confines, e'en the Arab's home,
And where Geloni in their war-paint roam.
Each tree shall claim its fatherland and kin.
Black ebon grows on Indian ground alone,
While Sheba waves the incense-spray her own. 140
Why sing of balsam's perfumed sweat to thee,
And pods of evergreen acanthus tree?
Of Ethiop forests hoar with fluttering fleece,
And downy foliage carded by Chinese?
The woods of India, hard by ocean's roar, 145
The furthest elbow of the round world's shore?
No flight of arrow may surmount the breeze
Which fans the summit of those Indian trees;
Although the native archer be not slack,
With bow in hand, and quiver on his back. 150
The kindly citron Media doth produce,
Of clammy savour and of acrid juice;
No medicine hath more sovereign control,
When fell stepmothers drug the murder bowl,
And mingle herbs of death and glamour strains—
The citron scours their poison from the veins:
The tree is huge, and like a bay in frame,
And, if the scent it scatters was the same,
A bay it were; the leaves defy the blast,
And stedfast clings the blossom to the last. 160
Herewith the Medes their lips and breath perfume,
And save asthmatic grandsires from the tomb.
But neither Median woods of wealth untold,
Nor Ganges fair, nor Hermus red with gold,
With Italy may vie; nor Bactrian grain, 165
Nor Ind, nor Sheba sleek with spicy plain.
Our land no bulls, with snorted fire for breath,
Have plough'd, no dragon's teeth have sown with death:
No harvest barb'd with helmet and with spear—
Our rank and file the serried wheaten ear, 170
Our bloodshed but the Massic vineyard's flow,
Where olives reign and bevied cattle low.
Hence proudly doth the charger paw the plain,
Hence snowy flocks, and bulls of lordly strain,
Besprent, Clitumnus, with thy stream divine, 175
Lead Roman triumphs to the altar shrine.
Here constant spring and summer charm the year,
Twice yean the flocks and twice the fruit-trees bear.
No tigers prowl, no savage lion seed;
No aconites the luckless hand mislead: 180
No serpent monster loops along the ground,
Or coils his scaly stretch in endless spirals round.
Then add, to all these products of the soil,
Our noble cities and constructive toil,
On beetling crags our castles' proud array, 185
And rivers gliding under bastions grey.
Why tell of ocean spread on either side,
The wash of upper and of nether tide
The lakes so vast, great Larius, and thee,
Benacus, rough and roaring like the sea? 190
Why tell of ports and barriers of Lucrine?
Where sullen surges lash the weather line,
While Julian waters murmur safe inside,
And Tuscan ripples through Avernus glide.
Our land as well the silver duct doth hold, 195
The copper veins, the gushing flood of gold.
Our land produceth men of sterling truth,
The Marsian warrior, the Sabellian youth,
The stern Ligurian disciplined by ill,
The javelin'd Volscians,—and, more glorious still, 200
The Decii, Marii, and Camilli great,
The sons of Scipio grim in warlike state.
And paramount of all, grand Cæsar, thee,
Who now, from Asia's far extremity,
In march of triumph scarest to their home 205
The Indians quailing at the towers of Rome.
Hail, land of plenty, Saturn's loved estate,
Mother of corn, and mother of the great!
Time-honour'd fame and art my theme shall be,
Unsealing wells of holy song for thee; 210
And, through the Roman townships, I am fain
To sing the lay of Ascra o'er again.
Now room to tell of woodlands' native dower,
Their staple, colour, and conceptive power.
And first, the stubborn soils, and crabbèd gnolls,
(A hungry clay, where hillside shingle rolls,) 216
These bosky scrublands minister and cheer
The tough-lived olive to Minerva dear.
For proof—see how wild olives there abound
And coppice-berries loosely strew the ground.
A buxom loam, with luscious juices fresh, 221
And swarded well, and sleek as creamy flesh—
Like soft savannahs sloping 'neath our feet,
Where hollow-curved the mountain valleys meet,
Where runnels melting from the craggy peak 225
Are filtering, drop by drop, an unctuous reek,
A slope that woos the south at every turn,
And feeds that enemy of ploughs the fern—
This soil will grant in strongest health the vine,
And gushing with the copious god of wine; 230
How lush with grapes in clusters manifold—
The juice we sip from flagons and from gold;
When the fat Tuscan puffs his altar pipe,
And chargers bend beneath the smoking tripe.
But if thou lovest more the calves and kine,
Or lambs or kids (those blisterers of the vine)—
Seek thou the glades of smug Tarentum's coast,
Or such a park as hapless Mantua lost,
With snow-white swans upon the lilied deep,
And limpid wells, and pasturage for sheep; 240
And all the kine browse in a summer's day
The cooling dews of one brief night repay.
Black earth, and fat behind the ploughshare's vent,
A mealy soil (for this the plough's intent)
Is best for corn; from nowhere else shall come
Such laden waggons slowly crawling home:
Or where the grumbling swain hath clear'd the wood,
And idle copse, that hath for ages stood,
Then root and branch the old bird-castles fell,
Away they soar out of their nests pell-mell: 250
Anon, beneath the onset of the share,
Glossily breaks the maiden earth laid bare.
For hungry brash, and highlands, scarce afford
Low cassia and sweet rosemary for bees;
And gritty silt lies barren on the leas, 255
And hunks of chalk by black chelyders bored:
No other field, they say, such victual makes
And winding lairs, and harbourage for snakes.
The soil that breathes thin mist and flitting haze,
And quaffs the dew, and at its will repays, 260
Self-clad for ever in a robe of green,
Nor apt to dim the spade with salt gangrene—
There olives teem, and there the elm shall twine
The gay embroidery of the laughing vine.
Work there, and you shall prove it kind enow
To beasts, and patient of the talon'd plough: 266
Such Capua tills, and slopes Vesuvian show,
And Clanius, deaf to lorn Acerra's woe.
Now hearken how to test the soil; and if
Thou wouldst discern light staple from the stiff,
(Since one is best for corn and one for vines, 271
The stiff for grain, the light for noble wines:)
Beforehand let a proper place be found,
Then sink a shaft deep in the solid ground,
Then shovel back the mould without delay, 275
And stamp the surface level as you may:
Light soil it is, if still the pit shall gape,
A soil for cattle and the genial grape.
But if the clods forswear their old abode,
And overpile the brim when all are stow'd, 280
The soil is close—look out for hummocks here,
And stubborn chines, and yoke your strongest steer.
A salt, and what is call'd a bitter earth,
Has little sympathy with Cereal birth;
No plough shall temper it, nor shalt thou find
The vines or apples true unto their kind. 286
To test it, rescue from the roof-tree dust,
Thick-osier'd maunds, and strainers of the must:
Herein that wicked soil compactly tread,
And water sweet, fresh from the fountain-head:
The water soon will fight its passage thence, 291
Ay, and the big drops trickle through their fence,
But proof condign their flavour will supply,
And sense of bitter twist the lips awry.
So too, when earth is over-fat, we can 295
Detect its grossness by a simple plan:
Though toss'd from hand to hand, it will not flake,
But stick like pitch, and to the fingers cake.
A watery soil too rank a growth will feed,
And over-rampant makes more haste than speed;
Ah, tempt me not with that luxuriant field, 301
Too winter-proud and powerful to yield!
A heavy and a light earth fall, if weigh'd,
Without a parley, known and self-betray'd.
Our eyes can read the hues from black to white,
But not the cursèd chill that breeds the blight,
Pitch-trees, and baleful yews, and ivy black,
Sole tenants whisper (when they dare ) its track.
This done, bethink thee well to season deep
The maiden loam, and trench the hilly sweep,
To northern gales parade the clods supine, 311
Then plant the laughing family of vine.
A mealy soil is found the prime of land,
And this effect the searching winds command,
The penetration of the winter's cold, 315
And brawny spadesman heaving the loose mould.
But they, who seize precaution as it flies,
Select a quarter, for their nurseries,
Like that where soon the fruiting plants are grown,
Their mother new lest haply they disown: 320
Nay more, the aspect on the rind they mark,
That each may stand exactly as it stood,
With face to noon, and back to northern arc—
So custom lords it o'er the youthful wood.
Now first inquire, if wiser it be found 325
To plant the vine on hills or level ground.
In rich champain lands, closely you may plant,
The closeness will not make the Wine-god faint.
But if the slope a waving outline shows,
And hilly stretch, be liberal to your rows: 330
Despite the ground, let every path and vine
Be boned exact, and squared by cutting line.
As oft, in mighty war, a legion train
Deploys its cohorts on the open plain,
The marching column dresses into line, 335
And all the country waves with weapon shine,
Nor yet they mingle in the bickering close,
But Mars uncertain stalks between the foes.
So dress thy vistas, and array them true,
To feed the sauntering fancy with the view, 340
And, more than this, that all have equal share
Of vital earth, and equal reach of air.
But, an thou ask, how deep the trench must be—
The vine set shallow is enough for me.
More deeply delve and fix in solid earth 345
The bay-oak first, and all the sylvan birth;
That tree, howe'er his head usurps the gale,
So far his roots the nether world assail.
Therefore no fury of the winter cold,
No blast, no storm, can tear him from his hold;
Unmoved he stands, and, through a thousand years,
Unfolds and conquers many an age of man,
And, spreading wide his arms a glorious span,
Resides within the giant shade he rears.
Let not your vineyards to the west incline, 355
Nor mix the planted hazel with the vine;
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Make no assault upon the whipster spray,^[1]
Nor strip the leaders from their props away,
(The vine so loves the ground that all would stray.).
Nor wound with blunted knife the tender shoot,
Nor plant wild olive trunks amid your fruit. 361
For oft the careless shepherd drops a spark,
Which lies perdu beneath the oily bark,
It gnaws the wood, and, flickering as it soars
High up the foliage, to the welkin roars, 365
Then follows through the limbs, with victor tread,
And rides enthroned above the towering head,
And wraps the grove in flames, and tosses high
A cloud of pitchy darkness to the sky:
Especially if lowering tempest break, 370
And gusts in volleys sweep the blazing flake.
Where this hath been, no more the vines can shoot,
No pruning give new vigour to the root,
Like verdure never more shall clothe the ground,
But olives wild with bitter leaves abound. 375
Let none tell you, however much he knows,
To stir the stiff soil when the north wind blows:
Then winter bars the field, forbidding e'en
The seed to strike its frozen root between.
For planting vines, the blush of Spring is best,
When comes the white bird whom the snakes detest; 381
Or first autumnal cold, when halts the sun
On Winter's verge, and Summer's course is run.
So Spring befriends the forest and the mead,
In Spring the plump earth craves the vital seed:
Then Air, almighty father, raining life, 386
Sinks on the bosom of his laughing wife;
All growth he feeds, commingling with the same,
The mighty Spirit in the mighty frame.
Then birds make music to the pathless groves, 390
And herds and flocks prove faithful to their loves:
The kind earth gives her increase, and the West
With fluttering warmth unzones the meadow's breast.
Soft dew is shed on all, and flowers are won
To trust their beauty to the stranger sun. 395
No more the vine-branch fears the southern squall,
Or showers that do the northern blast forestall;
But shows her budding jewelry of green,
And smooths the damask of her leafage sheen.
Such days, I trow, at the infancy of earth, 400
Shone forth, and kept the tenor of their birth;
True Spring was that, the world was bent on Spring,
And eastern breezes check'd their wintry wing:
While cattle drank new light, and man was shown
A race of iron from a land of stone; 405
Wild beasts anon leap'd forth upon the grove,
And constellations on the heaven above:
Nor could young Nature have achieved the birth,
Unless a period of repose so sweet
Had intervened betwixt the cold and heat, 410
And heaven's indulgence greeted the new earth.
For what remains—whene'er you plant be sure
To mulch abundantly with rich manure,
And bank them up with earth, or mingle well
With porous stone dug in, or grimy shell; 415
For so the rain shall trickle, and the breeze
Steal in, and buoy the spirits of the trees.
And some there are, who cover up awhile
With rocky slab, or breadth of massive tile;
Protection this against the pouring rain, 420
Or when the drought of Sirius cracks the plain.
When all are planted, draw the earth around
Their necks full often, and fork up the ground;
Or work the soil beneath the plough, and guide
The struggling steers adown the alley side; 425
Then fix smooth rods, and shafts of saplin shorn,
And ashen stakes, and forks with double horn,
Whereon they may defy the tempest's might,
And climb espalier'd up the elm-tree height.
But while young life is nestling delicate 430
In callow leaflets, spare their tender state;
And while the glad shoots frolic on the breeze,
Loose-rein'd on space, and prancing as they please,
Apply not yet the pruning falchion keen,
But nip them with your nails, and thin between;
Until they hug the elms with hearty strain, 436
Then strip their locks, and clip their arms amain:
Till then they shrink from steel, then bravely play
The iron Lord, and check the flaunting spray.
A hedge, moreover, must be wattled proof,
To keep the herds of every kind aloof; 441
Especially while soft and debonair
The maiden leafage laughs at future care:
Though soon to prove (besides the frost's affront,
And sunny power of the summer's brunt) 445
The sport of forest bulls, and goats malign,
And browsing ewes, and gormandising kine.
Nor doth the cold, with white frost matted stiff,
Nor summer's sheer dint on the sultry cliff,
Annoy like these, their venom'd tushes' cark,
And scar indented on the nibbled bark. 451
And hence a goat, the Wine-god's victim, dies,
When ancient pastimes enter on the stage,
And Theseus' sons award the village prize
Beside the cross-roads, where the wits engage;
While rustics, tippling on the velvet sward, 456
Are dancing upon bladders smear'd with lard.
Ausonian farmers too, a Trojan race,
Rude carols troll, and grin with broad grimace;
Grotesque and hideous are the masks they wear,
The which themselves of hollow cork prepare:
They hail thee, Bacchus, in their jocund lines,
And hang thy puppets dancing on the pines. 463
So, in the heyday of their fruitage lush,
The vineyards teem, the nestling valleys blush,
The dingles, and the deep lands, and where'er
The God, parading, shows his forehead fair.
To Bacchus, then, right grateful will we sing
Our native lay, and cakes and chargers bring;
Led by the horn the felon goat shall stand, 470
While reeking entrails roast on hazel wand.
But still the vineyard-dresser must pursue
That other task which none can over-do,
For thrice and four times each succeeding year
The caking surface must be cloven sheer, 475
The clods for ever fork'd across and straight,
And the grove lighten'd of its leafy weight.
Our labour ever in a round comes back,
And rolling twelvemonths beat their beaten track.
What time the vine her sere leaf lays aside, 480
And cold north winds smite down the forest pride,
E'en then the gardener, keen amid his cheer,
Forecasts the business of the coming year,
With Saturn's hook the widow'd vine pursues,
And pruning forms her as himself may choose.
Be first to dig the ground, and first right soon
To make a bonfire of the shoots you prune;
Be first to carry home and stack your props,
Be last to gather in the vintage crops. 489
Twice every year the leaf-shade coops the bine,
And twice the weeds and brambles choke the vine,
Hard trials both will prove; then take the alarm,
Applaud a large, but work a little farm.
Rough butcher-broom as well you must provide,
And osiers wild, and flags from river side. 495
Now vines are tied, the hook may now repose,
The tired swain sings the finish of his rows.
Still must we vex the earth, and stir the clod,
And ripening grapes must fear the Weather-god.
But olive-trees, unlike the vineyard, look 500
For culture none, nor sweep of pruning-hook,
Nor clogging harrows lack, when, rooted fast,
They once have hugg'd the soil, and borne the blast.
For them the earth, when once unclotted loose
With talon'd fork, vouchsafes spontaneous juice,
And quicken'd by the share gives large increase;
Then nurse the olive, the calm bride of peace.
Fruit-trees, moreover, soon as they have known
The vigour of the stock become their own,
Push jostling upward by their native powers, 510
To starry heaven, and ask no aid of ours.
And so the forest bends its fruitful head,
And wild bird-mansions blush with berries red.
Then clover-shrubs are mown that flocks may share;
The deep wood ministers its fuel, so 515
That evening fires may feed their merry glow—
And can we doubt to plant and lavish care?
Why need I follow every forest-tree?
The willows and the lowly brooms for me!
Leaves for the flock, and shade for swains they yield, 520
And food for bees, and fences for the field.
How sweet to see Cytorus waving rich
With box, and forests of Narycian pitch!
To see the plains no whit beholden there
To harrows, or to any human care! 525
The very woods, upon Caucasian steep,
(Which violent east winds ever crash and sweep,)
Give various growth, the pine so staunch at sea,
For houses cedar, and the cypress tree:
Hence spokes are planed, and wagon block-wheels made, 530
And raking keels for rustic shallops laid,
Willow for bines, and elms for fodder good,
For spear-shafts myrtle, and stout cornel-wood:
To bows of Ityra the yew is bent,
And lindens smooth accept the tool's intent; 535
The box-tree, on the lathe so clean to shave,
Is hollow'd as the whetted gouges grave.
Not rarely, too, the buoyant alder-wood
Is launch'd on Po, and swims the torrent-flood:
Not rarely, too, the bees swarm, out of ken, 540
In hollow bark, and canker'd Ilex wen.
The gifts of Bacchus, what can they produce
So rich in glory, and so full of use?
Nay, Bacchus hath been cause of crime and woe;
'Twas he who laid the raging Centaurs low, 545
Rhœtus, and Pholus, and Hylæus dread,
Who swung the bowl above the Lapith's head.
Oh, happy farmers! overblest, I wis,
If they could only realize their bliss!
For whom the earth, away from jangling strife,
In just abundance sheds the gifts of life. 551
Although no haughty castle-gates have pour'd
A flood of serfs, to hail their risen lord;
Nor gloat they on buhl columns, as they pass,
Robes shot with gold, and Ephyreän brass; 555
Nor snowy wool is daub'd with Tyrian paint,
Nor limpid oil bedrugg'd with cassia's taint:
But tranquil rest, and life too pure for harm,
A life endow'd with every simple charm, 559
But yeoman's ease, and broad lands of repose,
And grots, and lakes, where living water flows,
Cool Tempe's glade, and sleep beneath the trees,
And lowing kine—no lack have they of these.
Here are the woodlands, and the wild beast's lair,
And youth robust, content with humble fare; 565
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$God hath his honour, holy age its charm;
When Justice fled this world of sin and harm,
She left her last footprint upon the farm.
Me first accept, ye Muses sweet and fair,
Whose sacred gifts, with thrilling love, I bear;
To me the walks and stars of heaven display, 571
The sun's withdrawal and the moon's dismay;
Why quakes the earth, why seas lift up their pride,
Break bounds, and back upon themselves subside;
How winter suns in ocean plunge so soon, 575
And what belates the timid nights of June.
But if, lest I profane this hallow'd part,
Queen Nature chills the blood around my heart;
At least permit me to indulge my dream
Of meads, and valleys, and the mazy stream:
Be woods and waves my unambitious love, 581
And oh, the fields where doth Sperchius rove!
And mount Taÿgeta, who weaves his brows
With morris-dances of the Spartan maids:
Oh, who will set me in cool Hæmus' glades,
And hide me with a canopy of boughs! 586
Thrice blest the man whom mighty genius brings
To know the cause and origin of things:
Beneath his feet lie destiny and dread;
He walks the roaring waters of the dead. 590
And blest is he who knows the farmer's God,
Where Pan, Sylvanus, and the Nymphs have trod.
No Consul's axe, no Emperor's purple state,
No broil that breeds fraternal lies and hate,
No Dacian horde from Ister's dark cabal, 595
Nor Roman pomp, nor kingdoms raised to fall—
Nought recks he these, nor frets away his health,
Through pain at want, or jealousy of wealth.
Whatever fruit the branches, and the mead,
Spontaneous bring, he gathers for his need; 600
Nor sees the forum in its frantic time,
The iron laws, the calendars of crime.
While others vex dark Hellespont with oars,
Leap on the sword, or dash through royal stores,
Storm towns and homesteads, for their vile desire
To quaff from pearl, and sleep on tints of Tyre;
While others hoard and brood on buried dross,
And some are moonstruck at the pleader's gloss;
While this man gapes along the pit, to hear
The mob and senators renew their cheer; 610
And others, reeking in fraternal gore,

With songs of triumph quit their native shore,
Abjure sweet home for banishment, and run
In quest of country 'neath another sun—614
Meanwhile the farmer speeds the plough amain,
Awakes the earth, and opes the year's campaign,
Supports his country, and his children rears,
And feeds his kine and well-deserving steers.
No time but what the lavish seasons greet 619
With fruit, or firstlings, or with sheaves of wheat,
And load the croft, and burst the barn with wealth:
'Tis winter now, the oil-press groans with fruit,
The mast-fed swine come frisking full of health,
And still the forest offers red arbute:
Ripe Autumn spreads her generous tariff, 625
And mellow vintage streaks the sunny cliff.
Sweet children cluster round the farmer's kiss,
The chaste home keeps the innocence of bliss.
The cows stand full of milk, and on the grass
Fat kids cross horns, to try a sportive pass. 630
The farmer, in the midst, keeps holiday,
And, while his co-mates crown the bumpers gay,
Beside the bonfire, stretch'd upon the sod,
Invites and pledges thee, O Vintage-god!
Marks elms for targets to his shepherds' aim,
And bares their muscle for the rustic game. 636
This life of yore the early Sabines led,
And so were Romulus and Remus bred;
Thus brave Etruria flourish'd from her birth,
And Rome was made the fairest thing on earth;
She compass'd with a wall the mountains seven,
Herself in unity confronting heaven. 642
Nay, e'en before Dictæan tyrants' reign,
Before the innocent young beeves were slain,
For godless men their greedy lust to sate, 645
Our golden Saturn kept this earthly state;
Before the nations heard the clarion's peal
Or anvils vibrant to the ring of steel:—
But lo, how far we have scour'd across the lea!
'Tis time to cast our smoking horses free. 650

 

THE END.

 

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CHISWICK PRESS:—PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS,
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.

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1. I venture here to differ widely from the received interpretation, and for many reasons,—a false and obscure explanation is due, I believe, to a misapprehension of Pliny's.—M. G.