THE GEORGICS

What makes the cornfield smile; beneath which star
Maecenas, it's time to turn the soil
Or join elm with vine; how to take care of the steer;
What efforts go into cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trials work for smart bees;-
Such are my themes.
Oh universal lights
Most glorious! you who guide the passing year
Across the sky, Liber and gentle Ceres,
If by your kindness the earth once traded
Chaonian acorns for plump wheat,
And mixed with the grape, your new-found gift,
The offerings of Achelous; and you, Fauns,
Always kind to peasants, come join us, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I celebrate.
And you, for whose pleasure the war-horse first
Sprang from the earth at your great trident's strike,
Neptune; and dweller of the groves, for whom
Three hundred white heifers graze in the lush
Fields of Ceos; and clothed in power,
Your native forest and Lycean meadows,
Pan, shepherd-god, forsaking, as the love
Of your beloved Maenalus compels you, hear
And help, oh lord of Tegea! And you, too,
Minerva, from whose hand the olive tree sprang;
And boy-inventor of the curved plow;
And, bearing a young cypress root uprooted,
Silvanus, and all Gods and Goddesses,
Who care for the fields, both you who nurture
The tender unsown increase, and from the heavens
Shower riches onto man's sowing:
And you, even you, of whom we do not yet know
Which heavenly home shall soon hold you,
Whether to watch over cities is your will,
Great Caesar, and take charge of the earth,
So that the great world may welcome you
Lord of her abundance, master of her times,
Wearing a crown of myrtle around your brow,
Or as the god of the boundless ocean, alone,
The fear of sailors, until far Thule bows
Before you, and Tethys brings you to her son
With all her waves as a dowry; or as a star
Lend your fresh light to our slow months,
Where between the Maiden and those chasing Claws
A space is opening; look! red Scorpio himself
Draws in his arms, indeed, and has left you with
More than your full share of heaven: be what you will-
For neither Tartarus hopes to call you king,
Nor can such a dire lust for power
Ever fall upon you, however Greece admires
Elysium's fields, and Proserpine pays no mind
To her mother's voice pleading her return-
Grant us a prosperous journey, and smile upon this
My bold endeavor, and, pitying, just as I,
These poor lost country folk, at once begin,
To grow accustomed to the voice of prayer.
In early spring, when the icy drip
Melts from the old mountains, and Zephyr's breath
Loosens the crumbling earth, even then it's time;
Press deep your plow behind the groaning ox,
And teach the furrow-polished blade to shine.
That land fulfills the craving farmer's prayer,
Which has felt twice the sunlight, twice the frost;
Yes, that's the land whose boundless harvests
Burst, look! the barns.
But before our tools slice
Into unknown soil, let’s learn
The winds and changing moods of the sky,
The usual cultivation and habits of the area,
What each region yields, and what it lacks.
Here corn springs up more cheerfully, and here the grape,
There the earth is green with tender tree growth
And grass untended. Look how from Tmolus comes
The fragrance of saffron, ivory from India,
From Saba's weak sons their frankincense,
Iron from the bare Chalybes, castor from
Pontus, from Epirus the winning palms
Of the mares of Elis.
Such is the timeless bond
And such are the laws by nature’s hand imposed
On climate and climate, ever since the primal dawn
When old Deucalion cast stones on the uninhabited earth,
From which men, a flinty race, were raised.
Up then! if the soil is rich, let sturdy bulls
Turn it up from the year’s first opening months,
And let the clods lie bare until baked to dust
By the ripe heat of summer; but if the earth
Is less fruitful just before Arcturus rises
With shallower furrows turn it- it will suffice;
There, lest weeds choke the crop's fullness, here,
So that the scarce moisture does not fail the barren sand.
Then you will allow the newly harvested fields
Rest in alternate years, and on the plain
Let a crust of laziness harden; or, when the stars
Change in the sky, there sow the golden grain
Where once, abundant with its quivering pod,
You cleared pulse, or the slender vetch-crop,
And the sour lupin, whose brittle stalks arise,
Like a hurtling forest. For the plain is parched
By flax, parched by oats, by poppies, parched
In Lethe-sleep drenched. Nevertheless, by change
The laboring earth is lightened, but do not skimp
Rich compost to soak the thirsty soil,
And shower foul ashes over the exhausted fields.
Thus by rotation like rest is gained,
Nor shall the earth be left unworked and thankless.
Often, too, it will be useful to burn the bare fields,
And the light stubble ignite with crackling flames;
Whether that from it the earth derives some hidden strength
And rich nourishment, or that the fire
Cleans every flaw out, and sweats away
Each useless substance, or that the heat unlocks
New channels and secret pores, thereby
Their life-juice may reach the tender blades;
Or that it hardens more and helps to bind
The gaping veins, lest drenching rains,
Or the fierce sun's ravenous power, or the searching blast
Of the keen north should scorch them. Well, I know,
He serves the fields who with his harrow breaks
The sluggish clods, and hurries them along;
From high Olympus, golden Ceres does not overlook him;
And he, who having plowed the fallow field
And raised its furrowed ridges, turns once more
Crosswise his shattering share, with strike after strike
Assails the ground, and makes the field his servant.
Pray for rainy summers and clear winters,
You farmers; in winter's dust the crops
Rejoice greatly, the field takes joy;
No cultivation makes Mysia raise her head so high,
Nor Gargarus admire his own harvest so much.
Why talk of the one, who, having launched his seeds,
Goes in for close encounters, and smooths
The dry dust hillocks, then lets in the flood upon
The tender corn, whose waters are eager to follow;
And when the parched field trembles, and all the blades
Are wilting, from the brow of the hill,
Look! he lures the stream; down it falls,
Waking hoarse murmurs over the smooth stones,
And with its bubbling quenches the thirsty fields?
Or why of him, who lest the heavy ears
Weigh down the stalk, while yet in tender blade
Feeds down the crop's abundance, when its growth
First tops the furrows? Why of him who drains
The marshland's gathered ooze through soaking sand,
Particularly when in treacherous moons a stream
Bursts forth in spate, and with its coating of slime
Holds all the countryside, whence the hollow ditches
Sweat steaming vapors?
But not at all
For all attempts made and hard work borne
By man and beast in turning often the soil,
Do greedy geese and Strymon-haunting cranes
And the bitter fibers of succory stop harming,
Or shading does not injure. The great Father himself
Did not assign an easy path to farming,
And first was he to rouse with human skill
The sleeping soil, sharpening the thoughts of men
With care upon care, nor did he allow any realm of his
In lazy sloth to stagnate. Before Jove
Fields had no taming hand of farmers;
To mark the plain or set boundary lines-
Even this was thought wrong; for the common stock
They gathered, and the earth of her own will
Bore all things more freely, no man asking.
He gave black serpents their venom-destroyer,
And commanded the wolf to roam, and ocean to rage;
Shook the honey from the leaves, dispelled fire,
And restrained the rivers that spilled forth wine,
That through gradual course of thought on thought
Might forge the various arts, with furrow's assistance
To gain the grain, and strike out hidden fire
From the heart of flint. Then first the streams were aware
Of hollowed alder hulls: the sailor then
Gave names and numbers to stars, Pleiads and Hyads, and Lycaon's child
Bright Arctos; how with snares wild beasts were captured,
And how to trick them with lime,
And hem with hounds the mighty forest glades.
Soon one with a hand-net sweeps the wide stream,
Probing its depths, one drags his dripping nets
Along the sea; then iron's unbending might,
And the screeching saw blade,- for the men of old
With wedges used to cleave the splintering log;-
Then various arts emerged; toil conquered all,
Relentless toil, and poverty's sharp push
In hard times. Ceres was the first
To set mortals to work with tools to turn the soil,
When now the dreadful groves began to fail to bear
Acorns and arbutes, and her usual food
Dodona provided no more. Soon, too, the grain
Gained sorrow's increase, that an evil blight
Devoured the stalks, and thistles raised their spines
An idler in the fields; the crops died;
In their place sprang up a shaggy growth of burrs
And caltrops; and amid the neat cornfields
Unfruitful darnel and wild oats held sway.
Therefore, unless you shall with ceaseless rake
Chase the weeds, and scare the birds with shouting,
Prune with your hook the dark field's tangled shade,
Pray down the showers, all vainly you shall watch,
Alas! your neighbor's piled harvest, and in the thickets
Seek solace for your hunger from a shaken oak.
Now to say
The sturdy peasants' tools, what they are,
Without which, you can neither sow nor raise
The fruits of harvest; first the bent plow's share
And heavy timber, and slow-moving wagons
Of the Eleusinian mother, threshing sledges
And drags, and harrows with their crushing weight;
Then the cheap wickerwork of old Celeus,
Hurdles of arbute, and your mystical winnowing fork,
Iacchus; which, full tale, long before the time
You must with care set aside, if you expect
Not all unearned the country's divine crown.
While yet within the woods, the elm is domesticated
And bent with powerful force to form the stock,
And take on the plow's curved shape, then near the root
An eight-foot pole projects, two earth-boards,
And the share-beam with its double back they attach.
For a yoke a light linden is early hewn,
And a tall beech used for the handle, from behind
To turn the cart down low: then over the hearth
The wood is hung until the smoke knows it well.
Many teachings from ancient people
I can recount to you, so you don't flinch,
And such slight cares to learn won't tire you out.
And this among the first: your threshing floor
With a heavy roller must be leveled smooth,
And shaped by hand, and fixed with binding chalk,
Lest weeds arise, or dirt breaks through
Splitting the surface, then a thousand plagues
Will make sport of it: often the tiny mouse
Builds her home, and plants her granary underground,
Or blinding moles burrow for their bed,
Or toads are found in hollows, and all the swarm
Of the earth's unsightly creatures; or a huge
Corn-heap the weevil plunders, and the ant,
Fearful of coming age and poverty.
Also, pay attention when the walnut in the woods
Blooms abundantly, and bows down
Her fragrant branches, if the fruit prevails,
A large winnowing time will come with great heat;
But if the shade abounds with leaves,
Your threshing-floor will bruise the stalks
Rich only in chaff. Many I have seen
Steep, as they sow, their pulse seeds, soaking them
With saltpeter and black oil lees, that the fruit
Might swell within the tricky pods, and they
Hasten to boil with however small a fire.
Yet, gathered with caution, tested with patient toil,
I have seen these degenerate, if man
Does not reach out with power, year by year
Select the largest. So, by fate urged,
Everything speeds to the worse, and is pushed back
Away from us; even as one with struggling oars
Upstream scarcely rows a boat, if he happens
To slacken his arms, lo! the current sweeps him down the rushing tide.
We also need to pay attention to Arcturus' sign,
And the season of the Kids and the shining Snake,
No less than those who over the windy sea
Risk crossing the Pontic, and the jaws
Of oyster-filled Abydos. When the Scales
Now balancing the hours of sleep and day
Give half the world to sunshine, half to shade,
Then urge your bulls, my masters; sow the plain
Right to the edge of wild winter's showers
With barley: then, too, it's time to bury
Your flax in the earth, and poppy, Ceres' delight,
Yes, more than time to lean over the plow,
While the earth, still dry, does not forbid it, and the clouds
Are light. With spring comes bean-sowing;
You, too, Lucerne, the crumbling furrows then
Receive, and millet’s yearly care returns,
When the white bull with his golden horns
Opens the year, before whose threatening face,
The dog-star sinks. But if it’s
For wheat harvest and the hardy spelt,
You should tax the soil, to corn-ears wholly given,
Let Atlas' daughters hide themselves at dawn,
The Cretan star, a crown of fire, depart,
Or before the furrow's claim of seed you quit,
Or hurry to devote the whole year's hope
To earth that would not accept. Many have begun
Before Maia's star is setting; those, I believe,
Their hoped-for harvest mocks them with empty ears.
But if you are eager to sow vetch and common kidney beans,
Nor scorn to make your care
Pelusiac lentils, no uncertain sign
Boötes' fall will send you; then begin,
Pursue your sowing until half the frosts are over.
Therefore, it is the golden sun, its path
Into fixed parts dividing, rules his way
Through the twelve constellations of the world.
Five zones the heavens contain; of which one
Is ever red with flashing sunlight, always
Fervent from fire; on either side to left and right
Are etched the outer two, stiff with blue ice,
And black with scowling storm clouds, and between
These and the midmost, the other two lie,
By the Gods' grace to sick-hearted mortals given,
And a path cut between them, where might wheel
On sloping plains the system of the Signs.
And as toward Scythia and the Rhipaean heights
The world climbs upward, so it sinks down
Toward Libya and the south, this pole of ours
Still rising high, that other beneath their feet,
By dark Styx frowning, and the depths of shadows.
Here slides the huge Snake forth with sinuous coils
Between the two Bears and around them like a river-
The Bears that fear to dip beneath Ocean's brim.
There either, they say, reigns the eternal silence
Of night that knows no seasons, her black cloak
Thick-mantling fold on fold; or yonder,
Returning from us, Dawn brings back the day;
And when the first breath of his panting steeds
On us the Orient flings, that hour with them
Red Vesper begins to trim his late fires.
Hence under doubtful skies we can predict
The coming storms, hence both harvest day
And sowing time, when to strike the treacherous sea
With driving oars, when to launch the finely rigged fleet,
Or at the ripe hour to fell the forest pine.
Hence too, not without reason, we watch the stars-
Their rising and their setting- and the year,
Four changing seasons to one law conformed.
If frosty showers ever shut the farmer's door,
Much that would have soon with sunshine cried for haste,
He may forestall; the plowman sharpens
His blunted share's hard tooth, scoops from a tree
His troughs, or brands the cattle;
Or makes tall stakes for the two-pronged forks, and willow bindings
For the bending vine.
Now let the flexible basket be woven
Of bramble twigs; now set your corn to parch
Before the fire; now crush it with the stone.
No, even on holy days, some tasks are right
And lawful to do: this no ban forbids,
To turn the stream's course, fence in cornfields,
Set traps for the birds, burn up the briars,
And plunge your bleating flock in wholesome streams.
Often, too, with oil or plentiful cheap apples
The creeping donkey’s ribs his driver loads,
And home from town returning brings instead
A worn millstone or black lump of pitch.
The moon herself organizes in different ranks.
The days for lucky labor: avoid the fifth;
Then pale Orcus and the Eumenides sprang up;
Earth then in dreadful strain brought forth
Coeus, Iapetus, and Typhoeus fell,
And those sworn brothers banded to break down
The gates of heaven; thrice, indeed, they strove
To heave Ossa on Pelion’s top,
Yes, and on Ossa to up-roll steeply
Leafy Olympus; thrice with thunderbolt
Did their mountain stair the Father break asunder.
The seventh after the tenth is fortunate both to plant
The vine in earth, and take and tame the steer,
And fix the ropes for the warp; the ninth
Favors runaways better, and thieves less.
Many of the tasks that are easier to manage
In chilly night, or when the sun is young,
And Dawn dews the world. By night it's best
To harvest light stubble and parched fields;
For at night the softening moisture never fails.
And one will sit through the long late hours
By the winter firelight, shaping with keen blade
The torches to a point; his wife meanwhile,
Soothing her tedious labor with a song,
Speeds the sharp comb along the warp, or else
With Vulcan's aid boils the sweet must-juice down,
And skims with leaves the bubbling cauldron's wave.
But red Ceres is harvested in the heat of summer,
And in mid-heat the parched ears are bruised
On the floor; to plow strip, strip to sow;
Winter's the lazy time for farmers.
In the cold season, farmers usually enjoy
The fruits of their labor, and surrender themselves
To mutual exchange of festive cheer.
Benevolent winter calls them, and releases their cares,
As laden ships, when they now touch port,
And happy sailors crown the sterns with flowers.
Still, it is also the time to collect
Acorns from oaks, and berries from the bay,
Olives, and bleeding myrtles, then to set
Traps for the crane, and nets for the stag,
And hunt the long-eared hares, then strike the doe
With a whirling Balearic sling, while the snow lies deep,
And streams drift with ice.
What’s there to say about the autumn storms and stars,
And why men must be watchful, as now the day
Grows shorter, and the summer's heat softer?
When Spring the rain-bringer comes rushing down,
Or when the beards of harvest on the plain
Bristle already, and the milky corn
On its green stalks is swelling? Many a time,
When now the farmer to his golden fields
The reaper came bringing, even in the act
To cut the brittle barley stems, I have
Seen all the windy legions clash in war
Together, as to rip up far and wide
The heavy corn crop from its lowest roots,
And toss it skyward: so could winter's gust,
Dark-twirling, whirl light stalks and flying straws.
Often, it also comes towering high across the sky.
A march of waters; mustering from above,
The clouds roll up the storm, heaped and grim
With angry showers: down falls the height of heaven,
And with a great rain floods the smiling crops,
The oxen's labor: now the dikes fill quickly,
And the empty riverbeds swell thunderously,
And all the heaving inlets of Ocean boil.
The Father himself in the midnight of clouds
Wields with red hand the lightning; through her full body
The earth quakes at the tumult; the creatures flee,
And mortal hearts of every kind sunk
In cowering terror; he with flaming brand
Athos, or Rhodope, or Ceraunian peaks
Precipitates: then doubly raves the South
With rain upon blinding rain, and woods and coasts
Wail fitfully beneath the mighty gust.
Fearing this, mark the months and Signs of heaven,
Wherever retreats Saturn's icy star,
And through what heavenly cycles wanders
The glowing orb Cyllenian. Above all
Worship the Gods, and to great Ceres pay
Her yearly dues upon the fortunate grass
With sacrifice, near the very end
Of winter, and when Spring begins to shine.
Then lambs are fat, and wines are sweetest then;
Then sleep is sweet, and dark shadows fall
Upon the mountains. Let your rustic youth
Pay respect to Ceres, one and all;
And for her delight you mix honeycombs
With milk and the ripe wine-god's offerings; thrice for luck
Around the young corn let the victim circle,
And all the choir, a joyful company,
Attend it, and with shouts call Ceres come
To be their housemate; and let no man dare
Put sickle to the ripened ears until,
With woven oak upon his head,
He foots the rugged dance and chants the song.
Sure, and that we may come to understand
By certain signs, heats, and showers, and winds
That bring the frost, the Father of all himself
Ordained what warnings in her monthly cycle
The moon should offer, what the south wind's fall means,
What often seen signs the herdsman observing
Should keep his cattle closer to their stalls.
No sooner are the winds about to rise,
Than either Ocean's inlets begin to toss
And swell, and a dry crackling sound is heard
On the heights, or one loud ferment roars
The beach from afar, and through the forest goes
A murmuring multitude. By this
Hardly can the billow spare the curved keels,
When swiftly the sea-gulls from the middle sea
Come winging, and their shrieks are borne shoreward,
When ocean-loving cormorants on dry land
Play about, and the heron, its marshy haunts
Forsaking, soars above the towering cloud.
Often, too, when the wind is blowing, you will see
From heaven shooting stars headlong, and through murky night
Long trails of fire white-glistening in their wake,
Or light chaff flit in the air with fallen leaves,
Or feathers float and play on the wave-tops.
But when from regions of the furious North
It lightens, and when thunder fills the halls
Of Eurus and of Zephyr, all the fields
With brimming dikes are flooded, and at sea
No sailor but furls his dripping sails.
Never unexpected did a shower annoy:
Or, as it rises, the high-flying cranes
Flee to the valleys before it, with faces
Turned to heaven, the heifer sniffs the breeze
Through gaping nostrils, or about the marshes
The shrill-singing swallow flits, and the frogs
Crouch in the mud and sing their old dirge.
Often, too, the ant from out her inner cells,
Fretting the narrow path, carries her eggs;
Or the huge bow pulls moisture; or a crowd
Of rooks from food returning in long line
Caw with jostling wings. Now you may see
The various ocean-birds and those that skulk
Round Asian meadows within your fresher pools,
Cayster, as in eager competition,
About their shoulders dash the plentiful spray,
Now duck their heads beneath the wave, now run
Into the billows for sheer idle joy
Of their wild bathing-celebration. Then the crow
With a full voice, good-for-nothing, inviting rain,
Stalks on the dry sand lonely and alone.
Nor even the girls who spin their nightly task,
Know not the storm sign, when in blazing pot
They see the lamp oil sputtering with a growth
Of moldy snuff-clots.
Likewise, after rain,
Sunshine and open skies you may predict,
And learn by sure signs, for then neither dimmed
Appear the stars' sharp edges, nor the moon
As if borrowing from her brother's beams to rise,
Nor do fleecy films float along the sky.
Not to the sun's warmth then upon the shore
Do halcyons dear to Thetis open their wings,
Nor filthy swine give thought to toss on high
With scattering snout the straw-wisps. But the clouds
Seek more the valleys, and rest upon the plain,
And from the rooftop the night-owl for nothing
Watching the sunset plies her late song.
Clearly in clearest air is Nisus seen
Towering, and Scylla, for the purple lock
Pays dearly; for wherever, as she flies, her wings
The light air winnow, lo! fierce, unforgiving,
Nisus with mighty whirl through heaven pursues;
Where Nisus soars high, there her wings
Catch as she flies, the light air winnowing still.
Soft then the voice of rooks from drawn-in throat
Thrice, four times, repeated, and often
On their high nests, by some concealed joy
Gladdened beyond their usual, in bustling throngs
Among the leaves they rejoice; so sweet it is,
When the rain is done, to return
To their own beloved nests and tender brood. Not, I believe,
That heaven assigned some natural wit to these,
Or fate a larger foresight, but that when
The storm and moving moisture of the air
Have changed their courses, and the sky-god now,
Wet with the south-wind, thickens what was rare,
And what was dense loosens, then, too, change
Their spirits' fleeting phases, and their hearts
Feel different motions now, than when the wind
Was driving up the cloud cover. Hence arises
That blending of the feathered choirs in the fields,
The cattle's joy, and the rooks'
Deep-throated triumph.
But if the blazing sun
And moons in order following you regard,
Never will tomorrow's hour deceive you, never
Will you be caught by the canvas of a cloudless night.
When first the moon recalls her rallying fires,
If dark the air clipped by her crescent dim,
For those in the fields and on the open sea
A mighty rain is brewing; but if her face
With maiden blush she covers, 'twill be wind,
For the wind turns Phoebe still to ruddier gold.
But if at her fourth rising, for it is that
Which gives the surest counsel, clear she rides through heaven
With undulled horns, then shall that whole day,
And to the month's end those that spring from it,
Be rainless and calm, while safely ashore
Shall sailors pay their vows to Panope,
Glaucus, and Melicertes, Ino's child.
The sun, both at sunrise and shortly thereafter,
He dives beneath the waves, shall give you signs;
For there are no signs more reliable than those that travel with the sun,
Both those which in their course with dawn he brings,
And those at star-rise. When his springing orb
With spots he adorns, shrouded in a cloud,
And shrinks mid-circle, then beware of showers;
For then the South comes driving from the depths,
To trees and crops and cattle bringing doom.
Or when at daybreak through dark clouds his rays
Burst and are scattered, or when rising pale
Aurora departs from Tithonus' saffron bed,
Then scarce a cover will provide for ripening
Grapes; so thick a hail
In spiky showers rattles on the roof.
And this, you should bear in mind even more,
When now, his course upon Olympus run,
He draws to his decline: for often we see
Upon the sun's own face strange colors stray;
Dark predicts rain, of east winds fiery-red;
If spots with ruddy fire begin to mix,
Then you shall see the heavens convulsed in wrath-
Storm-clouds and wind together. Me that night
Let no man bid fare forth upon the deep,
Nor wrench the rope from shore. But if, when both
He brings again and hides the day's return,
Clear-orbed he shimmers, idly you will dread
The storm-clouds, and beneath the lustral North
See the woods waving. What late eve with fair weather
Bears in her bosom, whence the wind that brings
Fair-weather clouds, or what the rain South
Is meditating, signs of all these
The sun will give to you. Who dares to blame the sun
With untruth? He it is who often warns
Of hidden disputes at hand and treacheries,
And secret swelling of the waves of war.
He too it was, when Caesar's light was dimmed,
For Rome had pity, when his bright head he veiled
In iron-hued darkness, till a godless age
Trembled for endless night; at that time
Indeed the earth also, and the ocean plains,
And foul dogs, and birds of ill omen
Gave signs. Yes, how often have we seen
Etna, her furnace walls torn asunder,
In billowy floods boil over the Cyclops’ fields,
And roll down globes of fire and molten stones!
A clash of arms through all the heavens was heard
By Germany; strange tremors shook the Alps.
Yes, and by many through the breathless groves
A voice was heard with power, and wondrous pale
Phantoms were seen upon the gloom of night,
And cattle spoke, portentous! Streams stand still,
And the earth yawns asunder, ivory weeps
For sorrow in the shrines, and bronzes sweat.
Up-twirling forests with his swirling tide,
Madly he bears them down, that lord of floods,
Eridanus, till through all the plain are swept
Beasts and their stalls together. At that time
In dark entrails ceased not to appear
Dark-threatening fibers, springs to trickle blood,
And high-built cities night-long echoed
With the wolves' howling. Never more than then
From skies all cloudless fell the thunderbolts,
Nor blazed so often the comet's fire of doom.
Therefore a second time Philippi saw
The Roman troops with kindred weapons rush
To battle, nor did the high gods deem it hard
That twice Emathia and the wide plains
Of Haemus should be fattening with our blood.
Yes, and the time will come when nearby,
Heaving the earth with his curved plow,
Some swain will uncover javelins by foul rust
Corroded, or with a heavy harrow strike
On empty helmets, while he gapes to see
Bones like giants from the trench unearthed.
Gods of my land, heroes of the soil,
And Romulus, and Mother Vesta, you
Who protect Tuscan Tiber and Rome's Palatine,
This new champion at least
Do not forbid to restore our fallen generations.
To the full and long ago
Our blood has paid for your Trojan betrayals,
Laomedon. Long since the courts of heaven
Have grudged you, our Caesar, and complained
That you regard the triumphs of mankind,
Here where wrong is right, and right is wrong,
Where wars abound so many, and myriad-faced
Is crime; where no proper honor has the plow;
The fields, their farmers led far away,
Rot in neglect, and curved pruning-hooks
Into the sword's stiff blade are fused and forged.
Euphrates here, here Germany raises new strife;
Neighboring cities are in arms,
The laws that bound them snapped; and lawless war
Rages through all the universe; like when
The four-horse chariots from the barriers poured
Still quickened over the course, and, idly now
Grasping the reins, the driver by his team
Is carried onward, nor tends the car his curb.

So far, the cultivated fields and the stars in the sky; Now I will sing to you, Bacchus, and, with you, The young trees of the forest and the fruit Of slowly ripening olives. Hurry here, O Father of the wine-press; everything here Is bursting with the gifts of your hand; for you, The field blooms heavy with autumn's grapes, And the vintage foams high in overflowing vats; Come here, O Father of the wine-press, And strip off your buskins, and join me in the new must. First, nature’s way Of growing trees is diverse; Some spring up by their own force, Not needing human hands, and spread out Across the plains and river bends Like pliant osier and bending broom, Poplar and willows in pale clusters With green leaves shining gray; some arise From seeds that fall by chance, like the tall Chestnuts, and the mightiest of the trees, Jove's Aesculus, and oaks, which the Greeks Of old deemed as oracles. Some sprout forth A thick forest of dense suckers from the root, Like elms and cherries; similarly, a tiny plant, Beneath its mother tree's great shade, grows The bay tree of Parnassus. Such are the ways Nature first provided; hence all the variety Of forest trees and shrubs and sacred groves Springs into green. Other methods exist That are learned and acquired by practice. One takes suckers from the tender trunk Of the tree-mother and plants them in the trench; Another buries the bare stumps in the field, Hand-cut into quarters, or sharp-pointed stakes; Some forest trees await the bending of layers, With slips ready to grow in the parent soil; No root needs others, nor does the pruner's hand Shrink from restoring the top shoot to the earth That gave it life. Indeed, marvelously, Even when lopped of its limbs, the olive, a mere stock, Still sends its roots out from the lifeless wood, And often we see the branches of one kind Change to another without loss to regret, The pear tree transformed yields grafted apples, And stony cornels blush on the plum tree. Come then, and learn what cultivation suits each According to their species, you farmers, And tame the wild fruits with cultivation, lest the earth Be left idle. Oh, joy to make all Ismarus One forest for the wine-god, and to cover The huge Tabernus with olives! And be you Nearby, and help me with this laborious journey I am on, O my glory, O you who are Rightly the greatest part of my fame, Maecenas, and on this vast ocean launched Spread sail like wings to carry you. Not that I With my simple verse could encompass all, No, even if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths And a voice of iron; be you present, Hover but near the coastline; see the shore Is within our reach; I won’t now delay you With feigned songs and tedious preambles. Those that lift their heads Into the realms of light spontaneously, Fruitless indeed, yet sprightly and energetic spring, Since Nature dwells within the soil. And yet Even these, if one grafts them, or moves To suitably drilled trenches, will soon shed Their wild characters, and, through frequent cultivation, Will adapt swiftly to whatever craft you summon them, Similarly, the barren shoot from the root, If set out with proper space in open fields: Now the tree-mother's towering leaves and boughs Darken, now deplete their growth as they expand, And mess with its bearing. Finally, that Which arises from dropped seeds, grows up But slowly, promising its shade To later generations; apples diminish, Forgetful of their former sweetness, and the grape Bears meager clusters, prey for the birds. Indeed much labor must be spent, and all Tamed to the trench and at great cost subdued. Yet those grown from cuttings yield best olives, As vines do from layers, and from solid wood The myrtles loved by Paphos; while from suckers Spring both hardy hazels and enormous ash, the tree That provides shade for Hercules' brow, And acorns dear to the Chaonian father: So too springs the towering palm and the fir Destined to watch for dangers at sea. Yet the rough arbutus can be grafted with walnut; So barren plains have borne strong apples before, With beech flowering chestnuts, The mountain ash veiled in pear blooms, And swine munching on acorns beneath elm boughs. Nor is the method of grafting eyes And grafting one: where the buds push forth Amidst the bark, and break through the thin membranes, A narrow opening is made at the knot, In which from some strange tree a sprout is placed, And it is urged to cling and grow in the moist rind. Or, alternatively, in knotless trunks a gap is cut, And deep into the solid wood A slot is cleaved with wedges; then fruitful slips Are inserted here, and- before long- Upward it shoots with abundant branches, the tree Admires strange leaves and fruit that isn’t its own. Not only sturdy elms, Willow and lotus, nor the cypress trees Of Ida; nor of the same manner spring Fat olives, orchards, and radii And bitter-berried pausians, nor yet Apples and the forests of Alcinous; Nor from similar cuttings are Crustumian pears And Syrian, and the heavy-handed kinds. The vintage from our trees does not yield What Lesbos plucks from Methymna's vines. Thasian vines exist, Mareotids white, These apt for richer soils, for lighter those: Psithian for raisin-wine is more useful, thin Lageos, which one day will test the feet And tie the tongue: purples and early-ripes, And how, O Rhaetian, should I sing your praise? Yet do not rival Falernian casks. Vines Aminaean too, the best-bodied wine, To which Tmolian bows to, and, king Phanaeus too, and, lesser of that name, Argitis, for which no grape can compete In either gush of wine-juice or lifespan. Nor should I overlook you, vine of Rhodes, Welcomed by gods at the second feast, Nor you, Bumastus, with swollen clusters. But behold! how many kinds, and what their names, There is no way to tell, nor does it help to tell; Who wants to know it, would also want to learn How many grains of sand Zephyr tosses On Libya's plain, or when Eurus descends In fury on the ships, how many waves Roll in from the Ionian sea. Not that all soils can bear everything alike. Willows are born by water-courses, Alders in muddy marshes; on rocky heights Barren mountain ashes arise; on the shore Myrtles flourish brightly; Bacchus, lastly, loves The bare hillside, and yews withstand the chill of the north wind. Also observe the earth by foreign tillers tamed, And homes of Arabs in the East, and tattooed Geloni; to all trees their native lands Are assigned; no region but India bears Black ebony; frankincense branches Are solely the sons of Saba's; why tell you About balsams oozing from perfumed wood, Or ever-green acanthus berries? Of Aethiopian forests grey with downy wool, Or how the Seres comb their silky fleece from leaves? Of groves which India possesses, Near Ocean's shores, earth's furthest spot, Where not an arrow-shot can pierce the air Above the tree-tops? yet they are never lazy, When girded with their quivers! Media produces Bitter juices and lingering flavors Of the blessed citron fruit, than which no help Is more timely when fierce stepmothers poison the cup With mixed simples and spells of evil power To drive the deadly poison from the body. Large the tree's appearance resembles a bay, And, were it not for its different scent, It would have been a bay; for no wind of heaven Makes its leaves fall; its flower clings fast; With it the Medes sweeten their lips, And relieve the panting breathlessness of old age. But no, not Mede-land with its wealth of woods, Nor fair Ganges, and Hermus thick with gold, Can match the praise of Italy; nor India, Nor Bactria, nor Panchaia, a vast expanse Of incense-producing sand. Here never bulls With nostrils snorting fire upturned the dirt Sown with the monstrous dragon's teeth, nor crop Of warriors bristled thick with lance and helmet; But heavy harvests and the Massic juice Of Bacchus fills its borders, covered With fruitful flocks and olives. Hence arose The war-horse stepping proudly over the plain; Hence your white flocks, Clitumnus, and the bull, Of the mightiest victims, which often have led, Bathed in your sacred stream, the triumphant pomp Of Romans to the temples of the gods. Here blossoms eternal spring, and summer here In months that are not summer's; twice, the flocks teem; Twice, the tree bears its fruit. But ferocious tigers don’t come near, nor the breed Of savage lions, nor aconite betrays Its hapless gatherers, nor with sweeping Movements does the scaled serpent trail His endless coils across the ground, or twist himself Into spirals. Observe her cities, so many and so proud, From mighty toil’s achievement, town upon town Up steep cliffs raised and built, And rivers flowing below ancient walls. Or should I honor the sea that washes Her upper shores and lower? or those vast lakes? You, Larius, greatest, and you, Benacus, With billowy uproar surging like the ocean? Or sing about her harbors, and the barrier cast Across Lake Lucrine, and how the ocean roars With tremendous bellowings, where Julian waves Echo the thunder of his surge, and through Avernian inlets pours the Tuscan tide? A land that additionally displays Rivers of silver, mines of copper ore, And even with gold flows abundantly. A land that raised a brave breed of men, The Marsi and Sabellian youth, and, trained To hardship, the Ligurian, and with these The Volscian javelin-armed, the Decii too, The Marii and Camilli, names of might, The Scipios, determined warriors, and you, Great Caesar, who in Asia's farthest reaches With conquering arm even now protect The unarmed Indian from the heights of Rome. Hail, land of Saturn, mighty mother you Of fruits and heroes; it’s for you I dare To unseal the sacred fountains, and attempt Themes of old art and glory, as I sing The song of Ascra through the towns of Rome. Now for the native gifts of various soils, What strengths each holds, what colors, what natural inclination For yielding abundance. First, your stubborn lands And harsh hills, where thorny fields Of poor marl and gravel thrive, these delight In long-lived olive groves dear to Pallas. Take as a sign the plentiful growth nearby Of oleaster, and the fields widespread With woodland berries. But a soil that’s rich, In moisture sweet exulting, and the plain That swarms with grasses on its bounteous surface, Such as often in hollow mountain-dell We see beneath us—streams flow down from the heights With fertilizing mud—A plain that southward rising nourishes the fern By curved plows, this one day Shall yield you a store of vigorous vines to gush In torrents of the wine-god; this shall be Fruitful of grapes and flowing juice like that We pour to heaven from golden bowls, when The sleek Etruscan at the altar plays His ivory pipe, and on the curved dish We place the steaming entrails. If raising Cattle delights you more, steers or lambs, Or goats that destroy the tender plants, then seek Well-fed Tarentum's groves and distant fields, Or such a plain as unlucky Mantua lost Whose weedy water feeds the snow-white swan: There, neither clear springs nor grass will be lacking for your flocks, And all the day-long browsing of your herds Shall be replenished by the cool dews of one brief night. Land which the plowshare shows dark and rich, With crumbling soil—for this we simulate In plowing—for corn is the best; from no field Will you see more wagons returning home with plodding oxen; Or that from which the farmer in anger Has cleared the timber, and overthrown the brush That year after year lay idle, and from the roots Uprooted the ancient nesting sites of birds; Those banished from their nests have sought the skies; But the rough plain beneath the plowshare’s stroke Springs into sudden brightness. Indeed, The starved hill-country gravel barely feeds the bees With lowly cassias and with rosemary; Rough tufa and chalk too, gnawed through and through by black worms, Show no soils besides So full of serpent snacks, or that yield Such winding dens to hide in. That again, Which vaporous mist and fleeting smoke breathe out, Absorbs moisture and releases it at will, Which, ever in its own green grass arrayed, Does not tarnish the metal with rust's salt crust— That shall entwine your elms with merry vines; That teems with olives; that will make your cultivation kind To cattle, and patient with the curved share. Such plows rich Capua, such the coast that borders Your ridge, Vesuvius, and the Clanian flood, Acerrae’s desolation and her bane. How to recognize each, now hear me tell. Do you ask if it is loose or too firm— Since one is suited for corn, one for wine, The firmer one for Ceres, none too loose For you, Lyaeus?—with a discerning eye First choose your ground, and ask for a pit to be sunk Deep in the solid earth, then cast the soil All back again, and smooth the surface. If it isn’t enough, loose will be the land, More fit for cattle and for friendly vines; But if, resisting, the soil does not return to its proper bounds, But fills the pit and overtops it, then the soil is coarse; Look for stiff ridges and reluctant clods, And with strong bulls cleave the fallow crust. Salty ground again, and bitter, as it's called— Barren for fruits, by cultivation untamable, Neither grape her kind, nor apples their good name Maintaining—will yield you proof as follows: Strong osier-baskets from the rafter-smoke, And strainers of the winepress gathered down; In this let that evil land, mixed with fresh Spring-water, be thoroughly trampled; The moisture, you will note, will ooze all away, In big drops emerging through the osier strands, But plainly, its taste will reveal the secret, And with a harsh twang ruefully distort The mouths of those that try it. Rich soil, again, We learn about this way: tossed from hand to hand Yet never cracks, but like pitch, as we hold, Clings to the fingers. A land full of moisture Produces stronger herbs, and is more than suitable For plenty. Ah, may it never be O'er-fertile for me, or show too lavishly At the first tilling! Heavy land or light The mute witness of its weight reveals. A glance will serve to warn you which is black, Or what the hue of any. But hard it is To track the signs of that deadly cold: Pines only, noxious yews, and dark ivies Reveal its traces at times. Regarding all these rules, let your land, yes, long before, Scorch to the quick, and carve deep trenches Into the mighty mountains, and bare their upturned clods To the north wind, before you plant therein The vine’s fruitful kin. Fields whose soil Is crumbling are the best: winds account for this, And bitter hoar-frosts, and the delver’s relentless effort As he stirs the loosened earth. But those, whose watchful care escapes no detail, Search for a fitting site, where first to raise A nursery for the trees, and also where To soon relocate them, lest the sudden shock From their new mother estranges the young plants. Nay, even the quarter of the sky they mark Upon the bark, so that each may be restored, As it once stood, here bore the southern heat, Here turned its shoulder to the northern pole; So strong is custom formed in early years. Whether on hill or plain, it’s best to plant Your vineyard first inquire. If on some plain You measure out rich acres, then plant thick; Thick planting spares not the vine; But if on rising mound or sloping hill, Then let the rows have space, so that none the less Each line you draw, when all the trees are set, May tally to perfection. Just as often In mighty war, when the length of the legion Deploys its cohorts, and the column stands In open plain, the ranks of battle set, And far and wide with glimmering sheen of arms The wide earth flickers, nor yet in grisly strife Do foes grapple, but uncertain ‘twixt the hosts The war-god hesitates; so let all be arranged In equal rows symmetric, not just To feed an idle fancy with the view, But since without doing so, the earth will not provide Strength to all alike, nor will the boughs Have power to stretch them into open space. Should you happen to ask about the furrow's depth, Even in a shallow trench, I dare commit The vine; but deeper into the ground is fixed The tree that supports it, chief among them the oak, Which however far its summit soars toward heaven, So deep strikes root into the depths of the earth. This way, neither storms, nor gales, nor heavy rains Wrench it from its place; unshaken it endures, Watches many generations, many ages Of men roll by, and survives them all, Stretching its giant arms and branches wide, Sole central pillar of a world of shade. Nor let your vineyards slope towards the sunset, Nor plant hazel among the vines; nor take The topmost shoots for cuttings, nor from the top Of the supporting tree tear your suckers; So deep is their love of earth; nor wound the plants With a dull blade; nor scatter truncheons Of wild olives: for often from careless sheperds A spark has fallen, that, beneath the oily rind Hid thief-like first, now grips the tough tree trunk, And climbing to the leaves above, sends forth A roar to heaven, then racing through the branches And airy summits reigns victoriously, Wraps all the grove in robes of flame, and thick With pitch-black smoke heaves the murky reek Skyward, especially if a storm swoops Down on the forest, and a driving wind Rolls up the fire. When it’s like this, Their root-force fails them, nor, when lopped away, Can they recover, and from the earth beneath Spring to a similar greenness; thus alone survives The bare wild olive with its bitter leaves. Let none persuade you, however weighty-wise, To stir the soil when stiff with Boreas' breath. Then ice-bound winter locks the fields, nor lets The young plant fix its frozen root to the ground. Best to sow your vineyards when in blushing Spring Comes the white bird long-bodied snakes detest, Or on the eve of autumn's first frost, Before the swift sun steeds touch the wintry Signs, While summer is leaving. Spring it is That blesses the fruit-plantation, Spring the groves; In Spring earth swells and claims the fruitful seed. Then Aether, the omnipotent father, leaps down With quickening showers to his glad consort, And, might with might intermixed, raises to life All seeds that teem within her; then resound With bird songs the greenwood wildernesses, And in due time the herds renew their loves; Then the bountiful earth provides increase, and the fields Open their bosoms to warm west winds; Soft moisture spreads over all things, and the shoots Face the new suns and safely trust them now; The vine shoot, fearless of the rising south, Or mighty north winds pushing rain from heaven, Bursts into bud, and every leaf unfolds. Even so, I think, when Earth came into being, The first days dawned, and such was their course; It was Spring then, oh yes, Spring, the mighty world Kept; Eurus spared his wintry gales, When first the flocks drank in sunlight, and a race Of men like iron arose from the hard soil, And wild beasts filled the woods, and stars graced the heavens. Nor could frail creatures endure this heavy strain, If not for such a large respite interposing Between frost and heat, and heaven’s relenting arms Yield earth a warm welcome. For the rest, whatever The sets you plant in your fields, strew rich refuse on them, And with plenty of earth take care to cover them, And mix in rough shells or porous stone, for there among Will water trickle and fine vapor seep, And so the plants raise their drooping spirits. Yes, and there have been those who with weight of stone Or heavy potsherd press them down from above; This serves as protection from pelting showers, and this When the hot dog-star parches the fields. The slips once planted, it remains to work The earth around their roots persistently, And toss the heavy hoes, or engage the soil With a burrowing plow, and guide your laboring oxen Through the vineyard’s midst, smooth reeds and shafts of whittled wood, And sturdy poles to shape, In which they may learn to rise, Laugh at the winds, and through the elm foliage win From story up to story. Now while still The leaves are in their first fresh growth, Do not attack their fragility, and while still the bough Joyfully reaches for heaven, with loosened reins Set free, do not assault it yet With sharp sickles, but let the leaves alone Be picked with fingertip trim here and there. But when they wrap the elms with sturdy trunks upright, Then strip the leaves off, prune the boughs; Before, they shrink from steel, but then put forth The arm of strength, and stem the branchy tide. Hedges too must be woven, and all beasts Be barred out, especially while the leaves are young And unaware of danger; for besides harsh winters And overpowering sun, wild buffaloes and troublesome goats Always sport with them, sheep and heifers gorge their greed. Neither by hoar-frost’s cold curdle, nor the dead weight Of summer on the parched rocks, So harm it, as do the flocks with their venomous bite Of hard teeth, whose gnawing scars the stem. For none but this offends Bacchus The goat at every altar bleeds, and old plays Upon the stage gain entrance; therefore too The sons of Theseus throughout the countryside— Hamlet and crossway—set the prize of wit, And on the smooth grass over oiled skins Dance in their drunken merriment. Furthermore The Ausonian farmers, a race descended from Troy, Rejoice with rough rhymes and boisterous fun, Assume grim masks of hollowed bark, invoke You with joyful hymns, O Bacchus, and to you Hang puppet faces on tall pines to swing. Hence every vineyard overflows with ripening fruit, Till hollow valley overflows, and deep gorge, Wherever the god has turned his beautiful head. Therefore to Bacchus, I will sing with due Honor with ancestral hymns, and present Food and dishes to him; and the destined goat Led by the horn shall stand at the altar, Whose rich entrails on hazel spits we’ll roast. This further task again, to tend the vine, Needs more effort than exhausting; the whole soil Three, four times yearly must be cleaved, the sod With hoes flipped must be crushed continually, The entire plantation lightened of its leaves. Round and round the laborer spins the wheel of toil, As on its own path rolls the circling year. As soon as the vine has shed its lingering leaves, And the chilly north wind from the forests shook Their crown, even then the careful shepherd Looks keenly forward to the coming year, With Saturn’s bent fang hunts and prunes The forlorn vine, and shapes it. Be first to dig up the ground, first to clear And burn the discarded branches, first to house Again your vine poles, last to gather fruit. Twice does the thickening shade surround the vine, Twice weeds with stifling briars overwhelm the crop; And each is a laborious task. Praise Broad lands, farm just a few. Rough twigs besides Of butcher’s broom among the woods are cut, And reeds on the river banks, and still The bare willow seeks your nurturing care. So now the vines are bound, now the trees Release the sickle, and the last pruner now Sings of his completed rows; but still the ground Must be troubled, the dust be stirred, and heaven Still cause you to tremble for the ripening grapes. Not so with olives; little effort they need, Nor do they expect a bent sickle or biting rake, Once they have taken the soil, and borne the breeze. The earth on its own, with hooked fang bared, Yields moisture for the plants, and heavy fruit, The plowshare aiding; therewithal you’ll raise The olive’s fatness favored by Peace. Apples, moreover, as soon as first they feel Their stems grow strong, and have found their strength, Climb quickly to heaven, of their own accord, nor crave Our support. Meanwhile, the whole grove Is swelling with fruit, and the wild places of birds Blush with their blood-red berries. Cytisus Is good for feeding on, the tall forest provides Pine torches, and the nightly fires are fueled And shine forth with light. And should men hesitate To plant, nor spare their efforts? Why pursue Mightier things? Willows offer their green leaves, To shepherds shade, provide fences for crops, And feed for honey yield. And joyful it is to behold Cytorus Waving with box, Narycian groves of pitch; Oh! joyful the sight of fields not beholden To rake or man’s endeavor! The barren woods That crow the peaks of Caucasus, even these, Which furious blasts forever rend and tear, Yield various wealth, ship-worthy pine logs, Cedar and cypress for men’s homes; Hence, too, the farmers shave their wheel spokes, hence Drums for their wagons, and curved planks fit for boats; Willows bear enough shoots, the elm-tree leaves, Myrtle stout spear shafts, steadfast cornel too; Yews bend into Ituraean bows: Nor do smooth lindens or lathe-polished box Shrink from man's shaping and sharp-cutting steel; Light alder floats upon the boiling flood Pushed down the Padus, and bees make their hives In the rotting holm-oak's hollow bark and trunk. What of similar praise can Bacchus' gifts provide? No, Bacchus even incited crime, for he The wine-crazed Centaurs silenced with death, Rhoetus and Pholus, and with mighty bowl Hylaeus threatening high the Lapithae. Oh! all too happy tillers of the soil, If they only understood their blessings, for whom Far from the clash of arms all-equal earth Brings forth their easy fare! What if no lofty palace portal proud Vomit forth a tide of morning courtiers, Nor do they stare in awe At pillars inlaid with fair tortoise-shell, Gold-threaded robes, and bronze from Ephyre; Nor is the whiteness of their wool stained With Assyrian dyes, nor the clear olive oil With cassia tainted; yet untroubled calm, A life that knows no falsehood, rich enough With various treasures, yet broad-lands and ease, Caves and living lakes, yet tempes cool, Lowing of cattle, and soft sylvan slumbers, They do not lack; meadows and wild beasts’ haunts abound, A youth well-trained for labor, tempered to need, Worship, and venerable elders: with them from earth Departing, justice left her last footprints. May the sweet Muses, Whose rites I bear with mighty passion pressed, Receive me, and reveal the paths and stars of heaven, The sun's eclipses and the laboring moons, From where earthquakes arise, by what power the seas Swell from their depths, and, every barrier burst, Sink back upon themselves, why winter suns So haste to dip beneath the ocean, or what holds back The lingering night from advancing. But if to these High realms of nature the cold, curdling blood Around my heart bars access, then let fields And stream-washed valleys be my comfort, let me love Rivers and woods, inglorious. Oh for you, Plains, and Spercheius, and Taygete, By Spartan maidens over-revelled! Oh, for one, Who would place me in deep cool dells of Haemus, And shield me with his overshadowing branches! Happy is he who had the skill to understand Nature's hidden causes, and beneath his feet Cast all terrors, and death’s relentless fate, And the loud roar of greedy Acheron. Blessed too is he who knows the rural gods, Pan, old Silvanus, and the sister nymphs! Him neither the rods of state can bend, Nor royal robes, nor fierce strife that fuels Brother to turn against brother, nor descent Of Dacians from the Danube’s united flow, Nor the greatness of Rome, nor kingdoms close to dying; Nor has he grieved out of pity for the poor, Nor envied those who prosper. What fruit the boughs, And what the fields, of their own bounteous will Have produced, he gathers; neither iron rule of laws, Nor crazed Forum has his eyes witnessed, Nor recorded laws of the people. Others vex The dark depths of Ocean with their oars, Or dash themselves upon steel: they crowd within the courts And doors of rulers; one falls with havoc Upon a city and its hapless families, Drinks from gems, lies on Tyrian rugs; This hoards his wealth, and broods over buried gold; One stares blankly at the podium; One sits gaping, enchanted by cheers, The answering cheers of commoners and senate rolled Along the benches: bathed in brothers’ blood, Men revel, and, exchanging all delights of hearth and home For exile, seek a new country Beneath an unfamiliar sun. The farmer With a hooked plow turns the soil; from this Springs his yearly labor; hence, too, he sustains Country and cottage homestead, and from this His herds of cattle and deserving steers. No respite! still the year overflows with fruit, Or young calves, or Ceres' wheaten sheaf, With crops the furrow loads and bursts the barns. Winter arrives: in olive mills they crush The Sicyonian berry; acorn-fed The swine troop homeward; from the woods their arbutes yield; So, various fruit falls in Autumn, and high up On sunny rocks the sweet vintage ripens. Meanwhile around his lips sweet children cling; His pure home keeps its sanctity; his cows Drop milky udders, and on the lush green grass Fat kids are straining, horn to butting horn. He keeps holy days; stretched over the grass, Where around the fire his mates crown the bowl, He pours libation, and calls your name, Lenaeus, and for the herdsmen on an elm Sets up a target for the fast javelin; they Unclothe their sturdy bodies for the rustic sport. Such life in ancient times the Sabines led, Such Remus and his brother: Etruria thus, No doubt, grew to greatness, and Rome became The fair world’s fairest, and with circling walls Embraced to her single breast the seven hills. Ah, before the reign of Dicte’s king, before men, Grew godless, feasted on slaughtered bulls, Such life on earth did golden Saturn lead. Nor had the ear of man ever heard the war-trumpet's blast, Nor clang of sword on stubborn anvil sounded. But behold! an endless journey we have traveled; It’s time to unyoke our steaming horses.

You too, great Pales, I will celebrate, and you,
Amphrysian shepherd, deserving to be sung,
You, woods and waves of Lycaean. All other themes,
That could have inspired songs in a wandering mind,
Have now become too common. Who hasn’t heard
Of harsh Eurystheus, or that worthless king
Busiris and his altars? Or who hasn’t heard
The tale of young Hylas, Latonian Delos,
Hippodame, and Pelops known for his ivory shoulder,
A skilled charioteer? I must try a route,
By which I too can rise from the dust,
And soar triumphantly through people's words.
Yes, I shall be the first, as long as life endures,
To lead the Muses with me as I return
To my own country from the heights of Aonia;
I, Mantua, will first bring you back the palms
Of Idumaea and build a marble shrine
On your green plain, right by the water’s edge,
Where the Mincius flows more broadly in lazy loops,
And lines its banks with gentle reeds.
Caesar's divinity shall dwell within my shrine.
To him, I will, as victor, boldly dress
In Tyrian purple and drive down the bank
A hundred four-horse chariots. All of Greece for me,
Leaving Alpheus and the grove of Molorchus,
Shall strive on foot, or with the rawhide glove;
While I, crowned with green olives, will offer gifts. Yes,
It brings me joy to lead the grand processions to the temple,
And watch the victims being slaughtered; or to see how the scene
Changes with shifting views, and Britain’s sons
Interwoven there rise up with those proud curtains
Of gold and solid ivory on the doors.
I will depict the battle of the Gangarides,
And Quirinus' victorious arms, and there
Rising with conflict, the vast Nile flows,
And columns piled high with naval brass.
I will add Asia's defeated cities,
And subdued Niphates, and the Parthian foe,
Who relies on flight and backward-flying darts,
And trophies torn by twice-enforced hands
From empires on either side of the ocean.
Also, breathing figures of Parian marble shall stand there,
The children of Assaracus,
Great names of the Jove-descended line,
And father Tros, and Troy’s first founder, lord
Of Cynthus. And cursed Envy shall dread
The Furies, and your merciless stream,
Cocytus, and Ixion’s twisted snakes,
And that vast wheel and forever-rolling stone.
In the meantime, we seek the woods and meadows
Haunted by Dryads; it is your hard command,
Maecenas. Without you, no lofty task
Does my mind attempt. Up! break the lazy chains
Of delay; with a loud roar, Cithaeron calls,
Steed-taming Epidaurus, and your hounds,
Taygete; and listen! the responding groves
Echo the loud thundering sound. Yet I must prepare to rehearse soon
The fiery battles of Caesar, to speed his name
Through ages as countless as Caesar himself
From the dawn of Tithonus' birth.
If someone is eager for the coveted Olympian palm
One should breed horses, or strong oxen for plowing,
Let his first concern be to select a shapely mother.
For cattle, the best is the one with a grim face,
A coarse head and stout neck, whose hanging dewlaps reach
From chin to knee; a lengthy flank she has;
Everywhere she's large, large-footed even,
With curved horns and shaggy ears beneath.
Nor let me be displeased by one with noticeable white spots,
Or who kicks against the yoke, whose horn
Sometimes has a flaw in it: she should be more like a bull,
Tall-limbed entirely, and with a tail
That brushes her hooves as she walks along.
The age for marriage rites and Lucina's pains,
Before ten years pass, begins at four;
Their remaining days are not suitable for breeding,
Nor strong for plowing. Meanwhile, while youth’s delight
Endures within them, let loose the males: be the first
To send your cattle herds to their loves,
Breed with the stock, and keep the race going.
Ah! life’s best hours always fly away first
From hapless mortals; in their place follow
Disease and painful old age; until hard labor
And unrelenting death sweep them from the stage.
There will always be some that you would gladly change;
Renew them still; with yearly selection of young
Prevent losses, lest you rue it all too late.
Horses also need careful selection; however, on those
You intend to rear, your utmost care should be given
From their earliest youth. See that high-bred colt out in the field,
His lofty gait, his limbs' elastic step:
Fearless, he leads the herd, always the first to try
The threatening flood, or brave the unknown bridge,
Not frightened by any vain noise; with a lofty neck,
Clean-cut head, short belly, and sturdy back;
His lively chest bursting with muscles.
Chestnut and gray are good; the worst are white
And sorrel. Then behold! if arms clash in the distance,
He cannot hold still: his ears stiffen, and his limbs quake;
His nostrils flare and emit fiery breaths.
His mane is thick, and when lifted falls
On his right shoulder; between either loin
The spine splits; his earth-pounding hoofs
Sound with the heavy beat of solid horn.
Such was Cyllarus, reined and tamed
By Pollux of Amyclae; such the pair
Renowned in Greek song, those steeds of Mars,
And famed Achilles' team: in such-like form
Great Saturn himself, with mane loose on his neck,
Sped at his wife’s approach, and flew filled
The heights of Pelion with his piercing neigh.
Even he, when faced with serious illness or slow old age
Now saps his strength, keep him home, and spare
His not inglorious age. An old horse
Slow to ignite his passion vainly prolongs
The fruitless task, and when he comes to meet,
Like fire in stubble that rages without strength,
He thrashes in vain. Therefore mark first
Their age and mettle; other points can come later,
Such as breed and lineage, or the pain they've had
To lose the race, or the pride they had to win the palm.
Do you see how the chariots in wild rivalry
Pour from the starting gate, gripping the course and going,
When youthful hope is highest, and every heart
Pulses with excitement? How they wield
The circling whip, and reaching forward let
The reins hang loose! Swift spins the glowing wheel;
And now they lean down, and now they stand up in the air
Seeming to be flown through space and towering to the sky:
No stop, no pause; the dun sand whirls up;
They are covered with foam-flakes and the breath of pursuit;
So sweet is fame, so valued the victor's palm.
It was Ericthonius who first dared to yoke
Four horses to his chariot and rode above
The whirling wheels to victory: but the ring
And bridle-reins, mounted on horses' backs,
The Lapithae of Pelethron yielded,
Teaching knights in arms to spurn the ground,
And arch the gathered footsteps of pride.
Each task is equally challenging, and requires
A young, fiery horse that is swift of foot;
How often so-ever that rival may have chased
The fleeing foe, or boast his homeland plain
Of Epirus, or the stubborn stronghold of Mycenae,
And traces his lineage back to Neptune's birth.
With these points in mind, as the time approaches,
With swift eagerness they lavish all their care
To plump with solid fat the chosen chief
And designated husband of the herd:
And flowery herbs they cut, and serve him well
With grain and running water, that his strength
Does not fail him for that labor of joy,
Nor puny colts betray the weak sire.
The herd itself they deliberately reduce
To thinness, and when love's sweet longing first
Provokes them, they forbid leafy food,
And pen them away from springs, and often tire
Them in the sun, at the time when the threshing-floor
Groans heavily with the pounding of grain ears, and light chaff
Is whirled up to catch the rising west wind.
This they do, so that the land's fertile powers
May not be dulled by excess, nor choke
The sluggish furrows, but eagerly embrace
Their fill of love and deeply entertain.
To care for the father, the mother’s care comes next.
When great with young, they wander close to their time,
Let no man allow them to drag the yoke
In heavy wagons, nor leap across the way,
Nor scour the meadows, nor swim the rushing stream.
In lonely meadows, they feed them, by the course
Of overflowing streams, where moss grows, and the banks
Are greenest with grass, where are sheltering caves,
And a rock-flung shadow lies far outstretched.
Around wooded Silarus and the ilex-bowers
Of green Alburnus swarms a winged pest-
Its Roman name is Asilus, by the Greeks
Titled Oestros- it is fierce, and harshly buzzes,
Driving whole herds in terror through the groves,
Until heaven is maddened by their bellowing din,
And Tanager's dry bed and forest-banks.
With this same scourge did Juno once unleash
The terrors of her wrath, a plague devised
Against the heifer sprung from Inachus.
From this too you, since in the noon's heat
It is most persistent, fend your fertile herds,
And feed them when the sun is just risen,
Or when the first stars signal the night.
But when the longing fades, all their kind attention
Is transferred to the calves; at once with marks
They brand them, both to signify their race,
And which to rear for breeding, or devote
As altar-victims, or to break the ground
And turn the soil into ridges.
The rest may graze at will along the greensward.
Those that you would mold for rustic use,
As calves encourage, take steps to tame,
While pliant wills and youthful plasticity allow.
And first with slender branches around the neck
Loose collars hang, then when their free-born necks
Are used to service, with the same bands
Yoke them in pairs and force steer by steer to
Keep pace together. And it's time that often
Unloaded wheels be drawn along the ground
Behind them to make a dent in the surface dust;
Then let the beechen axle strain and creak
Under some heavy burden, while a bronze pole
Drags on the wheels fastened to it. Meanwhile
For their unbroken youth, not only grass,
Nor meager willow leaves and marsh sedge,
But corn ears pluck with your hand from the crops.
Nor shall the brood cows, as of yore, fill
The snowy milking-pail for you, but spend
Their udders' fullness on their own lovely young.
But if fierce troops and armies of war
Delight you more, or gliding on wheels
At Pisa, with Alpheus flowing by,
And in Jupiter’s grove urge on
The flying chariot, let your steed's first task
Be to face the warrior’s armed fury, and endure
The trumpet, and long roar of thundering wheels,
And the clink of chiming bridles in the stall;
Then more and more to love his master’s voice
When caressing, or the loud hand that claps his neck.
Yes, thus far let him learn to dare, when first
Weaned from his mother, and sometimes let
His mouth yield to the supple halter, even while still
Weak, with trembling limbs, and unaware of life.
But when three years are up, as the fourth arrives,
Now let him not delay to run the ring
With rhythmic hoof-beat echoing, and now learn
Alternately to bend each leg,
And be like one who struggles; then at last
Challenge the winds to race him, and at speed
Launched through the open, like a thing without reins,
Scarce leave a print on the surface sand.
As when with power from Hyperborean lands
The north wind swoops down, scattering from his path
Dry clouds and storms of Scythia; the tall corn
And rippling plains begin to shiver with light gusts;
A sound is heard among the forest-tops;
Long waves come racing toward the shore: fast he flies,
With instant wings sweeping earth and sea.
A horse like this on the grand track
Of Elis at the finish will sweat and shower
Red foam-flakes from his mouth, or, kinder work,
With patient neck support the Belgian car.
Then, finally broken, let swell their heavy frame
With fattening corn-mash, for, unbroken, they will
Grow proud and wanton, and when caught, refuse
To tolerate the tough lash or jagged curb.
But no device boosts their power.
As love’s blind stings of passion to ward off,
Whether on horse or steer your choice be made.
Yes, thus they banish bulls far away
To isolated pastures, or behind
Some mountain bar, or broad streams beyond,
Or else pen them densely at home.
For, even by seeing her, the female drains
His strength with smoldering fire, till he forgets
Both grass and woodland. She often can
With her sweet charms compel proud lovers
To battle for conquest horn to horn.
In Sila's forest feeds the fair heifer,
While each fierce rival runs toward the other;
Wound follows wound; black blood bathes their limbs;
Horns push and strive against each other,
With mighty groans; all the forest side
And far Olympus echoes back their roar.
Nor do champions usually sleep in the same stall;
But the one who is worsted retreats to strange lands
Far away, an exile, lamenting much the shame,
The blows dealt by that proud victor, then love's loss
Unavenged; with one glance toward the stable,
His former glories lie behind him.
So with all caution he practices his strength,
And all night makes the hard bare stones his bed,
And feeds on prickly leaves and pointed rush,
And proves himself, and butting against a tree
Learns to unleash his wrath into his horns, with blows
Provokes the air, and scattering clouds of sand
Makes a prelude of battle; afterward,
With strength restored and gathered might breaks camp,
And charges headlong against the unsuspecting foe:
As in mid-ocean when a wave far off
Begins to whiten, rising from the deep
With its rounded crest, rolling onward to shore
Falls with a huge roar among the rocks,
Immense as a true mountain: but the depths
Gurgle in swirling eddies, and discharge
The muddy sand from their sunken bed.
Indeed, every race of humans and animals on earth,
And creatures of the sea, and flocks, and painted birds,
Rush to the raging fire: love sways them all.
Never more fiercely over the plain
Prowls heedless of her cubs the lioness:
Nor do monstrous bears deal such widespread havoc
Through the forests; then the boar is fierce,
Most deadly then the tigress: then, alas!
It is ill roaming on Libya's lonely plains.
Do you notice what shivering thrills the horse's frame,
If just a breath of the well-known gust comes?
Nor can a curb hold them then, nor can the lash, no matter how severe,
Nor cliffs and caverned crags, nor torrents,
That rend and whirl and wash the hills away.
Then speeds amain the great Sabellian boar,
Sharpening his tusks, with his forefoot tears the ground,
Rubs against a tree his flanks, and to and fro
Hardens every wallowing shoulder for the wound.
What about the youth, when love's relentless power
Stirs the fierce fire within his veins? Behold!
In blindest midnight how he swims across the gulf
Convulsed with bursting storm-clouds! Over him
Heaven’s massive gates thunder; the rock-shattered sea
Issues a warning cry; nor can parents’ tears
Recall him, nor the maid he loves,
Too soon to die on his untimely pyre.
What about the spotted leopard dear to Bacchus,
Or the warlike wolf kind, or the breed of dogs?
Why mention how fearful stags join the battle?
O'er all is evident the rage of mares,
Inspired by Venus herself of old, when
The Potnian four with rending jaws devoured
The limbs of Glaucus. Love-constrained they roam
Past Gargarus, past the loud Ascanian flood;
They climb the mountains, and swim the torrents;
And when their eager marrow first conceives
The fire, especially in Spring, for with Spring
Warmth returns to their bodies, then they stand
All facing the west on the rocky heights,
And take in the gentle breezes;
And often unmated, incredible to tell,
But impregnated by the wind, far and wide
O'er craggy height and lowly vale they hurry,
Not toward your rising, Eurus, or the sun's,
But westward and north-west, or from where up-springs
Black Auster, that darkens heaven with rainy cold.
From their groins, a poisonous juice slowly drips,
By shepherds aptly named hippomanes,
Hippomanes, vile stepdames often have gathered,
And mixed with herbs and harmful spells.
In the meantime, the unstoppable hour passes quickly,
As point to point our charmed circle we trace.
Enough of herds. This second task remains,
To tend the wool-clad flocks and shaggy goats.
Here lies a labor; hence for glory look,
Brave farmers. Nor doubtfully know
How hard it is for words to triumph here,
And shed their light on such a slight theme:
But I am captured by irresistible desire
Above the solitary Parnassian height; I love
To walk the heights, from which no earlier path
Gently slopes down to Castalia's spring.
Now, fierce Pales, sound a louder note.
First, for soft coats the sheep I decree
To graze in, until green summer's swift return;
And that the hard ground beneath them with straw
And handfuls of fern be well littered,
Lest the chill of ice harm such tender cattle
With scab and loathsome foot-rot. Passing from there
I order the goats to be stocked with arbute-leaves,
And served with fresh spring-water, and their pens
Turned southward from the blast, to face winter's suns,
When Aquarius’ icy rays
Now sinks in showers upon the departing year.
These too require no lighter protection,
Nor prove to be of poorer service, however
Milesian fleeces dipped in Tyrian reds
Repay the trader; these bear more offspring
Numerous; these yield plentiful milk:
The more each dry-wrung udder froths the pail,
The more quickly soon the teat-pressed torrents flow.
Yes, and on Cinyps' banks the male goats too
Their beards and grizzled chins and bristling hair
Let be clipped for camp-use, or as rugs to wrap
Seafaring wretches. But they graze the woods
And heights of Lycaeus, and rough brambles,
And brakes that love the highland: by themselves
Very carefully the she-goats return home
Before their kids, and with filled udders clogged
Barely cross the threshold. Wherefore rather you,
Since they crave less man’s vigilance, be eager
To shield them from ice and snowy winds;
Bring food and feast them with branchy fare,
Nor lock your hayloft all winter long.
But when cheerful summer arrives at the call of the west wind
Sends each flock to pasture in the glades,
As soon as the sun rises, we hasten then
To the cool meadows, while dawn is fresh,
The grass still hoary, and to browsing herds
The dew tastes sweetest on the tender sward.
When heaven's fourth hour approaches the thickening drought,
And shrill cicadas pierce the thicket with song,
Then at the springs bid them, or deep pools,
From troughs of holm-oak drink the running water:
But at the hottest part of the day seek a shady vale,
Where some vast ancient-oaked Jove
Spreads his huge branches, or where darkly clustered
Ilex on ilex crouches in vast shade.
Then once more give them water sparingly,
And feed once more, till sunset, when cool eve
Calms the air with dewy moonbeams slaking
The forest glades, with the song of halcyon on the shore,
And every thicket rings with the goldfinch's tune.
Why tell the story of Libya's shepherds?
Why sing of their pastures and scattered huts
They inhabit? Often their cattle day and night
Graze the whole month together, and go forth
Into distant deserts where no shelter is,
So flat is the plain and boundless. All his goods
The African shepherd carries with him, house and home,
Arms, Cretan quiver, and Amyclaean dog;
As some sharp Roman in his country’s arms
Hikes the swift march beneath a cruel load;
Soon with tents pitched, and at his station he stands,
Ere expected by the foe. Not so the tribes
Of Scythia by the far Maeotic wave,
Where turbid Ister whirls his yellow sands,
And beneath the pole Rhodope stretches out
Trailing backwards. There they keep their herds
Close-penned in byres, nor do they see any grass
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 does the sun part the pale shadows,
Either as he rides steeply in the sky, 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 before to ships;
Brass vessels often burst asunder, 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 is filled with falling snow;
The cattle perish: oxen's mighty frames
Stand island-like amid the frost, and stags
In huddling herds, benumbed by that strange weight,
Barely top the surface with their antlers.
These are hunted not with hounds, nor ensnared with nets,
Nor scared by the terror of the crimson feather;
But, as in vain they face the barrier,
They are butchered, knife in hand, and thus dispatched
Loud-bellowing, and with glad shouts draught them home.
Themselves in deep-dug caverns underground
Dwell free and easy; to their hearths they heave
Oak logs and elm trees whole, and ignite them there,
There play the night out, and in festive delight
With barm and sour service mock the wine cup.
So 'neath the seven-starred Hyperborean wain
The folk live untamed, buffeted by blasts
Of Eurus from Rhipaean heights, and wrap
Their bodies in the tawny skins of beasts.
If you love wool, first, stay away.
From all prickly bushes, burrs, and caltrops; avoid
Luxuriant pastures; at first choose
White flocks with downy fleeces. For the ram,
No matter how white himself, if his tongue
Beneath his moist palate is black, discard him, lest
He mar his offspring’s fleece with dark spots,
And seek another one across the teeming plain.
Even with such snowy bribe of wool, if ear
May trust the tale, Pan, God of Arcady,
Snared and beguiled you, Luna, calling you
To the deep woods; nor did you spurn his call.
But whoever longs for milk must obtain it themselves.
Carry lucerne and lotus-leaves enough
With salt herbs to the cote, from where they more love
The streams, more stretch their udders, and give back
A subtle taste of saltiness in the milk.
Many there are who from their mothers shut
The newborn kids, and right away bind their mouths
With iron-tipped muzzles. What they milk at dawn,
Or during daylight hours, at night they press;
What darkly they gather or at sunset, this before dawn
They carry away in baskets- because to town
The shepherd hastens- or just sprinkle with salt,
And set aside for winter use.
Don't neglect your dogs; take care of them just as much.
Swift Spartan hounds and fierce Molossian feed
On fattening whey. Never, with these to guard,
Dread the nightly thieves or ravenous wolves,
Or Spanish brigands sneaking in the rear.
And often the timid wild asses you will chase,
With hounds, also hunt the hare, with hounds the doe;
Often from his woodland wallowing- den rouse
The boar, scaring him with their barking, and drive,
And over the mountains urge into the snares
Some antlered monster to their chiming cry.
Learn how to burn scented cedar wood.
Within the stalls, and to drive away
With the fumes of galbanum noxious snakes.
Oft beneath long-neglected cribs, or lurking
A viper deadly to touch, that has escaped
The light in fear, or some snake, that used
Beneath shade and a sheltering roof to creep, and spread
Its poison among the cattle, hugs the ground,
A foul scourge of beasts. Shepherd, seize stakes, seize stones!
And as he rears in defiance, and hisses,
Down with him! look how low
That cowering crest is veiled in flight,
While his mid coils and final sweep of tail
Relax, the last fold drags lingering spirals.
Then that vile worm that in Calabrian glades
Raises his breast, and wreathes with scaly back,
His lengthy belly speckled with mighty spots-
While from their springs gush any streams, while still
With showers of Spring and rainy southern winds the earth
Is moistened, behold! he haunts the pools, and here
Housed in the banks, with fish and chattering frogs
Fills the gaping void of his insatiate maw.
As soon as the marshes are parched, and the earth
Gapes with heat, he darts into the dry,
Rolling fiery eyes and raging through the fields,
Furious from thirst and dismayed by the drought.
I do not wish to slumber beneath the open sky
Nor lie stretched out on the grass on a forest ridge, when, after shedding his skin,
Transformed to dazzling youth, he winds his coils,
And leaves eggs or younglings in his lair,
He rises towards the sun, flashing with a three-forked tongue.
I'll teach you about the causes and signs of sickness as well.
Loathsome scab attacks the sheep,
When chilly showers have pierced them to the core,
And winter stark with hoar-frost, or when sweat
Unpurged clings to them after shearing done,
And rough thorns tear their bodies. Hence it is
Shepherds plunge their flock steep in running streams,
While, submerged beneath the flood, with drenched wool,
The ram, freed, goes drifting down the tide.
Otherwise, having shorn, they smear their bodies over
With acrid oil-lees, and mix silver-scum
And local sulfur and Idaean pitch,
Wax softened with ointment, and therewith
Sea-leek, strong hellebores, black bitumen.
Yet never does kinder fortune reward his labor,
Than when a man dares with an iron blade lance
The ulcer's mouth open: for the poison is nourished
And quickened by confinement; while the swain
Withholds his healing hand from the wound,
Or sits praying for happier signs from heaven.
Aye, and when pain has sunk into the bleater's bones
And rages, and their limbs
By parched fever are consumed, it's good
To draw the burning heat therefrom, and pierce
Within the hoof clefts a blood-filling vein.
Of tribes Bisaltic such the customary use,
And keen Gelonian, when to Rhodope
He flies, or Getic desert, and quaffs milk
With horse-blood curdled.
Do you see one in the distance?
Often to the shade’s gentle cover wins, or pulling
The grass tops listlessly, or trailing behind,
Or, browsing, falls down amid the plain,
At night retreats late and alone;
With quick knife check the mischief, ere it creep
With dire contagion through the unwary herd.
Less thick and fast the whirlwind sweeps the sea
With tempest in its wake, than swarms the plagues
Of cattle; nor do they seize single lives alone,
But suddenly clear whole grazing grounds, taking the flock
With all its promise, and extirpating the breed.
Well would one believe it who, so long after, still
High Alps and Noric hill-forts should see,
And Iapydian Timavus' fields,
Ay, still behold the shepherds' realms a desolation,
And far and wide the meadows empty.
Here from troubled skies once came
A wretched season, with the full fierce heat
Of autumn glowing, and cattle, all kinds,
And all wild creatures brought to destruction,
Tainted the pools, the fodder laden with poison.
Nor was the way of death simple, but when
Hot thirst through every vein had drawn
Their wretched limbs together, immediately overflowed
A watery flux, and all their bones piece by piece
Sapped by corruption absorbing them into itself.
Often in mid-sacrifice to heaven- the white
Wool-woven band half-wrapped around his brow-
Some victim, standing by the altar, fell there
Betwixt the loitering peasants and died:
Or, if the early slaughtering priest had struck,
Nor with its heaped entrails blazed the pyre,
Nor seer to seeker yielded answer whence;
Nay, scarcely had the up-stabbing knife with blood been stained,
Barely sullied with thin gore the surface sand.
Hence die the calves in many pasture fair,
Or at full cribs their lives' sweet breath resign;
Hence madness comes upon the fawning dog, hence
The sick swine choke and gasp with a cough
That swells at the jaws: the conquering steed,
Uncrowned by effort and heedless of the sward,
Faints, turns from the springs, and paws the earth
With unceasing hoof: low droop his ears, wherefrom
Burst fitful sweat, a sweat that grows cold
Upon the dying beast; the skin is dry,
And rigidly rejects the handler's touch.
These earlier signs they give that foresee doom.
But, if the advancing plague starts to grow fiercer,
Then their eyes blaze with fire, ragged their breath,
Sometimes with labored groans; with long heaves
They huff their lowest flanks; from either nostril streams
Black blood; a rough tongue clogs their obstructed jaws.
It was helpful to pour
Drinks of the wine-god down through the inverted horn;
This seemed the only way to save the dying: soon this too proved their doom,
And, reinvigorated but with madness' fire,
Even in death’s last throes- the gods some happier fate
Deal to the just, such madness to their foes-
Each with bared teeth tearing apart his own limbs.
Look! as he exhausts under the stubborn share,
The bull drops, vomiting foam-flecked blood,
And groans his last. Sad goes the swain,
Unhooks the steer that mourns his fellow's fate,
And in mid labor leaves the plow gear fast.
Nor the tall wood's shadow, nor the soft sward may stir
That heart's emotion, nor the rock-channelled stream,
More pure than amber speeding to the plain:
But look! his flanks fail beneath him, his eyes
Are dulled with deadly lethargy, and his neck
Collapses to the earth with drooping weight. What now
Shall benefit him toil or service? having turned
The heavy sod with plowshare? And yet these
Never knew the Massic wine-god’s baleful gift,
Nor twice replenished feasts: but on leaves
They feed, and virgin grasses, and their drinks
Are crystal springs and streams running into tired,
Their healthy slumbers never broken by care.
Then only, they say, through that countryside
For Juno’s rites were cattle far to seek,
And mismatched buffaloes pulled the chariots
To their grand temples. So they painfully with rakes
Turn the soil, always, with their very nails
Digging in the corn seeds, and with strained neck
Over the uplands drag the creaking wagons.
No wolf for ambush prowls about the pen,
Nor does the flock face nightly danger; sharper pain
Subdues him: the timid deer and swift stags
Now wander by the haunts of men
The vast ocean's offspring, and all diving tribes,
On the shore's edge the wave washes up,
Like shipwrecked bodies: seals, unwonted there,
Flee to the rivers. Now the viper dies,
For all his den’s close winding, and with scales
Erect the astonished water-worms. The air
Does not brook even the birds, that tumble down,
And leave their life beneath the soaring cloud.
Moreover, now no change of fodder serves,
And the most subtle cures but hurt; then the masters
Chiron, sprung from Phillyron, and
Amythaon's son Melampus were defeated. See!
From Stygian darkness launched into the light
Comes raging pale Tisiphone; she drives
Disease and fear before her, and day by day
Still rearing higher that all-devouring head.
With bleats of flocks and lowings thick resound
Rivers and parched banks and sloping heights.
At last in crowds she slaughters them, she chokes
The very stalls with carrion heaps rotting
In hideous decay, till men learn
With earth to cover them, in pits to hide.
For even the fells are useless; nor can flesh
With water purge, or tamed with fire,
Nor shear the fleeces even, gnawed through and through
With foul disease, nor touch the putrid webs;
But, had one dared to test the loathsome weeds,
Red blisters and an unclean sweat would cover
His putrid limbs, until, with no long delay,
The fiery curse would devour his tainted frame.

Of airborne honey, a gift from above, I now
Pick up the story. On this topic, look kindly,
Maecenas, with a generous heart.
A marvelous show of small powers,
Brave leaders, a nation's tale,
Its characteristics, its nature, its wars and tribes,
All shall pass before you as I sing.
Though the poet's subject may seem slight, the praise
Is anything but small, so don't frown, heavens, let Phoebus hear his call.
First, create a safe environment for your bees,
Where no winds can blow in (winds push back
The foragers returning home with food)
Nor sheep and playful kids trample the flowers,
Nor wandering heifers on the plain
Brush away the dew and crush the tender blades.
Let the flashy lizard stay far away
From their sweet stalls,
And the bee-eater, and all other birds,
And Procne, stained with blood on her chest
From her own murderous hands. For these wander far
Wasting everything, or the bees themselves
Are struck mid-flight and in their beaks carry home,
To feed those savage nestlings the delicate spoil.
But let clear springs and lush green pools be nearby,
And let a little stream rush through the grass,
Let a palm tree stretch its shade over the porch,
Or a large oleaster, that in Spring,
Their own sweet Springtime, when the newly formed chiefs
Lead out the young swarms, and, freed from their hive,
The colony comes out to frolic and play,
The neighboring bank can entice them from the heat,
Or branches offer a welcoming shade.
Over the water, whether swift or calm,
Lay down willow branches and enough large stones,
Bridges where they can find footing
And spread their wide wings to the summer sun,
If by chance Eurus, swooping while they pause,
Has splashed them with spray or plunged them into the depths.
And let green cassias and far-scented thymes,
And savory blooms with their rich fragrance
Blossom all around, and nearby violet beds
Sip the sweetness from the fertilizing springs.
For the hive itself, whether made from hollow bark,
Or woven from strong osier, let the doors
Have a narrow entrance; for the harsh winter's cold
Freezes the honey, and heat melts it away,
Disastrous for the bees alike; not without reason
Do they hurry to seal up the tiny holes
That pierce their walls, and fill the gaps
With pollen from the flowers, and gather and store
Glue, that holds tighter
Than bird-lime or pitch from Ida's pines.
Often, too, in burrowed holes, if the rumors are true,
They create their cozy underground homes,
And deeply lodged in hollow rocks are found,
Or in the cavity of an ancient tree.
You must also smear their crevices
With warm smooth mud and cover them with leaves;
But near their home let neither yew trees grow,
Nor roasted crab-apples redden the ground,
And be wary of foul-smelling marshy ground,
Or where the hollow rocks make sonorous echoes,
And the spoken word bounces back.
What else? When the golden sun has chased
Winter far below the world,
And opened heaven's doors with summer rays,
Immediately they scour the meadows and forests,
Ransack the colorful flowers, or sip from the streams,
Lightly hovering on the surface. Thus it is
In some sweet rapture, of which we know nothing,
They raise their young ones; thus skillfully
They create new wax or cling to honey molds.
So when you see the hosts escaping from their cages
Floating heavenward through the hot clear air, until
You marvel at that dusky cloud spreading
And lengthening in the wind, take note of them well;
For then they always seek the fresh springs
And leafy shelter: here you must bring
The savory sweets I mentioned, and sprinkle them,
Crushed balsam and the wax-flower's simple herb,
And wake the tinkling cymbals heard
By the great Mother: on the anointed spots
They will settle, and in their usual way
Seek the cradle's innermost depth.
But if they have gone off to fight—
For often among kings fierce disputes arise,
With uproar from afar
You can discern what passion sways the mob,
And how their hearts are racing for the fight;
Listen! the harsh brass note that warriors know
Calls out the laggards, and the ear can catch
A sound that mocks the war-trumpet's broken blasts;
Then in a flurry they gather, then spread their wings,
Sharpen their pointed beaks and strengthen their muscles,
And around the king, even to his royal tent,
They throng, rallying, and with shouts defy the foe.
So, when a dry Spring and clear space appears,
They break forth from the gates, they clash high;
A din erupts; they gather and tumble
Into one mighty mass, and headlong they fall,
Not even falling hail through heaven, nor pelting so
Rains from the shaken oak its acorn-shower.
Conspicuous by their wings the leaders themselves
Press through the heart of the battle, and display
A giant's spirit in each tiny frame,
Resolute not to yield an inch until either side
The victor's heavy hand has turned to flight.
Such fiery passions and fierce assaults
Are controlled and subdued by a little sprinkled dust.
And now, both leaders recalled from the field,
Who looks worse shall face death,
Lest royal waste become burdensome, but let
The better one rule from the empty throne.
One will shine with gold-bright flakes like fire,
For they are of two kinds, the nobler one,
Of unmatched strength and lit with gleaming scales;
The other, from neglect and squalor foul,
Drags a slow cumbersome belly. As with kings,
So too with people, diverse is their shape,
Some rough and loathsome, as when a traveler
Escapes from a whirl of dust, and scorched with heat
Spits out the dry grit from his parched mouth:
The others shine and flash with a lightning gleam,
Their backs all adorned with bright drops of gold
Symmetrical: this is the likelier breed; from these,
When heaven brings around the season, you will strain
Sweet honey, but not so sweet as clear,
And melting on the tongue like the wine-god's fire.
But when the swarms fly around aimlessly,
Playing in heaven and neglecting their cells,
Leaving the hive unwarmed, from such foolish play
You must curb their wild desires,
And it's not a hard task: tear off the wings of the queens;
While these linger, none will dare
Ascend to heaven, or take the banners from the camp.
Let gardens fragrant with saffron flowers
Allure them, and the lord of Hellespont,
Priapus, holder of the willow-scythe,
Safeguard them from birds and thieves.
And let the person to whom such cares are dear
Himself bring thyme and pine-trees from the heights,
And scatter them in broad bands around their home;
No hand but his should bear the blistering task,
To plant the young slips, or shed the generous showers.
And I myself, if I wasn't even now
Furling my sails, close to the journey's end,
Eager to turn my ship's prow toward the shore,
Perhaps would sing of what careful husbandry
Makes the trimmed garden smile; of Paestum too,
Whose roses bloom and fade and bloom again;
How endives thrive in the streams they drink,
And green banks in their parsley, and how the gourd
Twists through the grass and rounds out his belly;
Nor would my lips be silent of Narcissus,
That loiterer of the flowers, nor supple-stemmed
Acanthus, with the praise of pale ivies,
And myrtles clinging to the shores they love.
For beneath the shade of tall Oebalia's towers,
Where dark Galaesus washes the yellowing fields,
An old man once I remember seeing-
From Corycus he came- to whom had fallen
A few poor acres of neglected land,
And they were neither fruitful beneath the plodding steer,
Fit for grazing herds, nor good for vines.
Yet he, while planting his meager garden herbs
Among the thorns, and all around
White lilies, vervains, and lean poppies,
In pride of spirit matched the wealth of kings,
And home returning not until late night,
With unbought abundance piled his table high.
He was the first to pick the rose in spring,
He the ripe fruits in autumn; and before yet
Winter had ceased in sullen rage to tear
The rocks with frost, and with her icy grip
Constrain the flowing waters, there was he
Plucking the early faint hyacinths, while he chided
Summer's slow footsteps and the lingering West.
Therefore he too was among the first to brood over bees
And their full swarms overflowed, and first was he
To press the bubbling honey from the hive;
Lime-trees were his, and many a branching pine;
And all the fruits with which in early bloom
The orchard had clothed her, in full account
Hung there, perfected by mellowing autumn.
He too transplanted tall elms in rows,
Sturdy pears, thorns bursting with plums
And plane trees now providing shade
For dry lips to drink under: but these things,
Shut off by strict limits, I pass by,
And leave for others to sing after me.
Come, and I will show you the natural abilities
Great Jove himself bestowed upon the bees,
The gift for which, led by the sweet sounds
Of the Curetes and their clashing brass,
They fed the King of heaven in Dicte's cave.
Alone of all creatures, they accept and maintain
Community of offspring, and they dwell
Together in one city, and beneath
The shelter of majestic laws they live;
And they alone know home and country,
And in summer, warned of coming cold,
Make proof of toil, and for the common store
Gather up their harvest. For some
Watch over the supplies of the hive, and these
By settled order perform their tasks in the fields;
And some within the confines of their home
Firmly plant the comb's first layer, Narcissus' tear,
And sticky gum oozed from the bark of trees,
Then attach the clinging wax to hang therefrom.
Others lead forth the full-grown young,
Their nation's hope, and others press and pack
The thrice-refined honey, and stretch their cells
To bursting with the clear-strained sweet nectar.
Some, too, are tasked with guarding the gates,
Who take turns watching for showers and cloudy skies,
Or relieve returning workers of their load,
Or band together and drive away
The drones, a lazy horde. How the work glows!
How sweet the honey smells of perfumed thyme
Like the Cyclopes, when in haste they forge
From the slow-yielding ore their thunderbolts,
Some from the bull's-hide driving bellows in and out
Let the blasts blow, some dip in the water-trough
The sputtering metal: with the anvil's weight
Etna groans: they take turns in time
With giant strength lifting their sinewy arms,
Or twist the iron with the forceps' grip-
Not otherwise, to measure small with great,
The love of acquiring planted in their hearts
Drives the bees, who haunt old Cecrops' heights,
Each in his role to labor. The old guard
The town, and build the walled combs,
And shape the clever chambers; but the youth,
Their tired legs packed with thyme, come laboring home
Late, for they range afar to feed
On arbutes and the grey-green willow leaves,
And cassia and the crocus blushing red,
Glue-yielding limes, and dusky-eyed hyacinths.
One hour for rest they have, and one for toil:
With dawn they rush from the gates- no room
For loiterers there: and once again, when evening
Bids them quit their grazing on the plain,
Then homeward they make, then refresh their strength:
A hum arises: listen! they buzz and buzz
Around the doors and threshold; till at last
Safe laid to rest they hush for the night,
And welcome slumber cradles their weary limbs.
But not too far from the homestead they journey,
When showers are threatening to fall, nor, with east winds nearby,
Trust in heaven, but 'neath the city walls
Safely circle fetch them water, or attempt
Brief outings, and often weigh tiny stones,
As light craft ballast in the tossing tide,
With which they navigate the cloudy vast.
This law of life, too, by the bees obeyed,
Will amaze you, that neither do they pair up
In marriage, nor yield their limbs to love,
Nor know the pangs of labor, but alone
From leaves and honeyed herbs, the mothers each,
Gather their offspring in their mouths and solely
Provide new kings and a tiny commonwealth,
And repair their old court and waxen realm.
Often, too, while wandering, against jagged stones
Their wings they fray, and under the burden yield
Their generous lives: so profound is their love of flowers,
So glorious do they find honey's proud gain.
Therefore, though each lives a short life,
Never reaching more than seven summers,
Yet their race endures deathlessly, and still
Forever stands the fortune of their lineage,
From grandparent to grandparent recounting back.
Moreover, neither Egypt, nor the realm
Of boundless Lydia, no, nor Parthia's hordes,
Nor Median Hydaspes, to their king
Render such allegiance: if the king lives unscathed,
One will inspires the many: if he dies,
The bond of loyalty snaps; they themselves
Ravage their toil-wrought honey, and tear apart
The waxen trellis of their own comb. He is the lord
Of all their labor; him they regard with awe,
And with murmuring crowds surround,
In throngs they often shoulder him up high,
Or with their bodies shield him in the fight,
And seek through showering wounds a glorious death.
Following these signs and traits,
Some say that bees are granted a part
Of the Divine Intelligence, and drink
Pure draughts of ether; for God permeates all-
Earth, and wide ocean, and the dome of heaven-
From whom flocks, herds, men, beasts of every kind,
Draw each at birth the fine essential flame;
Indeed, all things here return to Him,
Brought back by dissolution, nor can death
Find a place: but, each into their starry rank,
Alive they soar, and ascend to the heights of heaven.
If you want to open up their cramped home now,
And access the treasures of the honey-house,
With a sip of water first moisten your lips,
And spread before you plumes of curling smoke.
Twice is the abundant harvest gathered in,
Each year, two harvests to collect,
Once when Taygete the Pleiad lifts
Her lovely forehead for the earth to see,
With foot of scorn spurning the ocean streams,
Once when in gloom she flies the watery Fish,
And dips from heaven into the wintry wave.
Boundless then is their fury; if harmed, they unleash
Poison in their bite, digging into veins
And letting the sting lie buried, and leave their lives
Behind in the wound. But if you'd fear
An overly harsh winter, and wish to
Mild the coming season, and move their bruised hearts
And broken state to pity your soul,
Yet who would shy from fumigating with thyme,
Or cutting away the empty wax? For often
Into their comb the newt has gnawed unseen,
And light-hating beetles have stuffed their beds,
And he who feasts at others’ tables,
The do-nothing drone; or against the unequal foe
Swoops the fierce hornet, or the moth's fierce tribe;
Or spider, victim of Minerva's spite,
Hangs her swaying net across the doorway.
The more they are impoverished, the more keenly
To mend the fallen fortunes of their race
Will strengthen them, fill the cells up, tier upon tier,
And weave their granaries from the rifled flowers.
Now, realizing that life also brings challenges to bees
Our human chances, if in dire sickness
Their strength should weaken- which shortly
By unambiguous signs can be told-
Immediately the sick change color; grim leaness taints
Their countenance; then from out the cells they bear
Forms robbed of light, and lead the mournful throng;
Or foot to foot around the porch they hang,
Or languish within closed doors, listless all
From starvation, and numbed with freezing cold.
Then a deep note is heard, a long-drawn hum,
As when the chill South winds through the forests sigh,
As when the troubled ocean hoarsely booms
With back-swaying waves, as a ravenous tide of fire
Surges, shut fast within the furnace-walls.
Then I suggest burning scented galbanum,
And, honey-streams through reed-troughs instilled,
Challenge and encourage their waning appetites
To taste the familiar food; and it will help
To mix in the savory crushed from gall,
And dried rose-leaves, or must boiled thick
By a fierce fire, or juice of raisin grapes
From the Psithian vine, and with its bitter scent
Centaury, and the famed Cecropian thyme.
There is a meadow flower called starwort by country folk
It's a plant not hard to find;
From one sod it raises a golden growth,
All golden itself, but surrounded by abundant leaves,
Where the glory of purple shines through violet gloom.
With garlands woven from this, Heaven's altars
Are frequently decked: it tastes harsh on the tongue;
Shepherds in smooth valleys grazed by nibbling flocks
Gather it by Mella's winding waters.
The roots of this, well boiled in fragrant wine,
Set in brimmed baskets at their doors for food.
But if he were to lose his entire stock all at once,
And he has no means to breed the race anew,
It's time to reveal the wondrous secret
Taught by the shepherd of Arcadia, how
The blood of slaughtered bulls often brings
Bees from decay. I will trace back to its prime source
The story's tangled thread,
And therewith unravel. For where your happy folk,
Canopus, city of Pellaean renown,
Dwell by the Nile's lagoon-like overflow,
And high over furrows they have called their own
Sail in their painted boats; where, close by,
The quivered Persian presses, and that flood
Which from the dark-skinned Aethiop bears him down,
Swiftly parting into sevenfold branching mouths
With black mud fattens and makes Egypt green,
That entire land's hope for prosperity
Rests solely on this art. And first, they choose
A narrow recess, compact closer for this purpose,
Which next with a tight roof of tiles above
Between enclosing walls they constrict, and add
From the four winds four slanting window slits.
Then they select from the herd a steer, whose horns
With two years' growth are curled, and stop firmly,
Rush madly if he can, the panting mouth
And two nostrils, and done with blows to death,
Beat his flesh to a pulp in the still hide,
And close the doors, and leave him to lie there.
But beneath his ribs, they scatter broken branches,
With thyme and freshly pulled cassias: this must be done
When first the west winds bid the waters flow,
Before meadows blush with new hues, and before
The twittering swallow builds from the beams.
Meanwhile the juice within his softened bones
Heats and ferments, and wonderful things are born,
Footless at first, soon with feet and wings,
Swarming there and buzzing, a marvel to see;
And more and more they take the fleeting breeze,
Until, like a shower pouring from summer clouds,
They burst forth, or like arrows from a quivering string
When Parthia's flying hosts provoke the fight.
Say who he was, what God, that created this.
Art for us, O Muses? Of man's skill
Whence came this new adventure? From thy vale,
Peneian Tempe, turning, bee-bereft,
So runs the tale, by famine and disease,
Mournful the shepherd Aristaeus stood
Beside the haunted riverhead, and thus
With many lamentations to her who bore him cried:
"Mother, Cyrene, mother, who dwell beneath
This whirling flood, if indeed thou sayest,
Apollo, lord of Thymbra, is my father,
Sprung from the Gods' high lineage, why didst thou bare me
With fortune's curse for birthright? Where now is
Thy love for me- banished from your heart?
O! why didst thou raise me to hope for heaven?
Behold! even the crown of this poor mortal life,
Which all my skilled care by field and fold,
No art overlooked, hardly has come to be,
This even falls from me, yet thou callest me son.
Nay, then, arise! With thine own hands pluck up
My fruit plantations: on the homestead cast
Pitiless fire; make havoc of my crops;
Burn the young plants, and wield the stubborn axe
Against my vines, if there has come such
Loathing for my greatness." But that cry,
Even from her chamber in the river's depths,
His mother heard: around her spun the nymphs
Milesian wool tinted through with pale dye,
Drymo, Xantho, Ligea, Phyllodoce,
Their glossy locks over snowy shoulders shed,
Cydippe and Lycorias golden-haired,
One maiden, one newly learned to bear
Lucina's birth pang. Clio, too,
And Beroe, sisters, both children of the sea,
Both adorned with gold and dressed in dappled skins,
Ephyre and Opis, and from Asian meads
Deiopea, and, having laid aside her bow,
Fleet-footed Arethusa. But among them
Fair Clymene was recounting the tale
Of Vulcan's idle watchfulness and the stealth
Of Mars' sweet theft, and from old Chaos
Counted the jostling love-joys of the Gods.
Captivated by her song, while their woolly tasks
With spindles down they drew, yet once again
The mournful lament of Aristaeus smote
On his mother's ears; on their glassy thrones
Amazement held them all; but Arethusa
Before the rest put forth her auburn head,
Peering above the wave-tips, and from far
Exclaimed, "Cyrene, sister, not without cause
Scared by a groan so deep, see! it is he,
Even Aristaeus, thy heart's fondest care,
Here by the bank of the Peneian source
Stands woebegone and weeping, and calls
Upon thee for thy cruelty."
To whom, strange terror knocking at her breast,
"Bring, bring him to our sight," the mother cried;
"His feet may tread at the threshold of Gods."
So saying, she bids the flood yawn wide and yield
A pathway for his steps; but the wave
Arched like a mountain closed around him, and within
Its mighty bosom welcomed him, and let him speed
To the deep riverbed. And now, with eyes
Filled with wonder gazing on his mother's hall
And watery kingdom and cave-prisoned pools
And echoing groves, he went, and, stunned by that
Stupendous whirl of waters, separately saw
All streams beneath the mighty earth that glide,
Phasis and Lycus, and that fountain-head
Whence first the deep Enipeus leaps to light,
Whence father Tiber, and whence Anio's flood,
And Hypanis that roars amid his rocks,
And Mysian Caicus, and, bull-headed
'Twixt either gilded horn, Eridanus,
Than whom none other through the laughing plains
More furious pours into the purple sea.
Once the chamber's hanging roof of stone
Was reached, and now Cyrene from her son
Had heard his aimless weeping, in due course
Clear water for his hands the sisters bring,
With napkins of shorn pile, while others pile
The table with delicacies, and set on anew
Brimming goblets; with Panchaean fires
The altars leap high; then the mother spoke,
"Take beakers of Maconian wine," she said,
"Let us pour one for Ocean." The Ocean, father of all,
She honors, and the sister-nymphs who guard
The hundred forests and the hundred streams;
Thrice Vesta's fire with clear nectar she dashed,
Thrice to the rooftop shot the flame and shone:
Armed with this omen she attempted to speak:
"In Neptune's gulf, Carpathian dwells a seer,
Cerulean Proteus, he who measures the sea
With a fish-drawn chariot of two-footed steeds;
Now he returns to his native home,
Pallene and the Emathian ports; to him
We nymphs do honor, yes, and old Nereus;
For he knows all things, both those which are
And those that have been, or which time has yet to unfold;
So willed it Neptune, whose portentous flocks,
And loathsome sea-calves 'neath the surge he feeds.
Him first, my son, it is your duty to seize and bind
So he may reveal the cause of your illness,
And grant you a prosperous end. For only by force
Will he provide counsel, nor will you change
His heart through prayer; once captured, press
With rigorous force and fetters; against these
His tricks will fail and be futile.
I, when the sun has lit his midday fires,
When the blades thirst, and cattle seek shade,
Myself will lead you to the old man's lair,
Where he lumbers from the waves,
That you may more safely take him in his sleep.
But when you have firmly gripped him with your hand and chain,
Then various forms and beast-like shapes
Shall mock your grasp; for suddenly he will change
To a bristly boar, a fierce tigress, scaled dragon,
And tawny-tufted lioness, or cause
A crackling sound of fire, and thus shake off
The fetters, or in showering drops dissolve
And vanish. But the more he shifts
His endless transformations, you, my son,
More tightly clutch the clinging ties, until
His form returns to that which you saw,
When with closed eyelids he sank to sleep."
With that said, a scent of heavenly dew
She shed around, and all his body with it
Drenched thoroughly; forth from his neat-combed locks
Breathed a sweet fragrance, and a limber vigor leaped
Into his limbs. There is a vast cavern
Scooped in the mountainside, where wave upon wave
By the wind's pressure is driven, and breaks far up
Its innermost creeks- a safe anchorage of old
For tempest-tossed mariners: within there,
Behind a massive rock, Proteus hides.
Here in close concealment from the sun's eye
The youth she places, and herself the while
Wrapped in a shadowy mist stands far away.
And now the ravening dog-star flaming
The thirsty Indians blazed in the sky; his path
The blazing sun had half consumed: the blades
Were parched, and the empty streams with thirsty jaws
Baked to their mud beds by the scorching heat,
When Proteus seeking his accustomed cave
Strode from the billows: around him frolicking
The watery folk that fill the open sea
Scattered the bitter brine-dew far and wide.
Along the shore in scattered groups to feast
The sea-calves lay stretched out: while the seer himself,
Like a herdsman on the hills when evening bids
The steers return to their stall,
And the lambs' bleating whets the listening wolves,
Sits midmost on the rock and tells his tale.
But Aristaeus, the foe within his grasp,
Barely allowing him to settle his aged limbs,
With a loud cry leapt on him, and before he rose,
Forestalled him with fetters; he, nonetheless,
All unforgetful of his ancient craft,
Transforms himself into every wondrous thing,
Fire and a fearful beast, and flowing stream.
But when no trickery found a path for escape,
Eventually baffled, he resumed his own shape,
With human lips he spoke, "Who bid thee then,
So recklessly by youth's boldness, confront
Our halls? Or what do you seek from here?"- But he,
"Proteus, you know, in your own heart you recognize;
For you can't be fooled, but stop
To play tricks on me: by heaven's command
I come here for your lifeless fortunes
An oracle to ask you." There he paused.
Whereat the seer, constrained by stubborn force,
Shot forth the gray light of his gleaming eyes
Upon him, and with fiercely gnashing teeth
Unpaused his lips to spell the fates of heaven:
"Don't underestimate that it is divine anger that troubles you like this,
Nor take lightly the debt you owe; 'tis Orpheus,
Orpheus, unhappy, by no fault of his,
So fates do not prevent, fans your punishing fires,
Yet maddened for his stolen bride.
She, in her haste to evade your hot pursuit
Along the stream, did not see the approaching death,
Where at her feet kept watch on the bank
In the tall grass a monstrous water-snake.
But with their cries the Dryad chorus filled
The mountain peaks to their proudest heights:
Mourned for her fate the heights of Rhodope,
And tall Pangaea, and, beloved of Mars,
The land that bowed to Rhesus, Thrace no less
With Hebrus' stream; and Orithyia cried,
Daughter of aged Acte. But Orpheus himself,
Soothing his love-pain with the hollow shell,
To you his sweet wife on the lonely shore,
You when day dawned and when it died he sang.
He even came to the jaws of Taenarus,
Of Dis' infernal palace, and the grove
Grim with a horror of great darkness- came,
Entered, and faced the Manes and the King
Of terrors, whose stone heart no prayer can soften.
Then from the depths of Erebus,
Wrung by his music, the hollow shades
Came flocking, ghostly apparitions of forms
Lost to the light, as birds by myriads flee
To green boughs for cover, when twilight comes
Or winter storms drive them from the hills;
Mothers and fathers, and tremendous heroic forms
Done with life's labor, boys, unwedded girls,
Youths placed on pyres before their parent's eyes.
All around them, with black slime choked and hideous weeds,
Cocytus winds; there lies the unenviable swamp
Of dull dead water, and, to trap them fast,
Styx with her nine-fold barrier poured between.
Nay, even the deep Tartarean Halls of death
Stood lost in astonishment, and the Eumenides,
Their brows with livid locks of serpents entwined;
Even Cerberus held his triple jaws agape,
And, the winds hushed, Ixion's wheel stood still.
And now with a homeward footstep he had passed
All perils unscathed, and, at last restored,
Eurydice back to the realms of upper air
Had nearly won, behind him following-
So Proserpine decreed it- when his heart
Was seized by a sudden mad desire-
A fitting fault to be forgiven, might Hell forgive.
For at the very threshold of the day,
Heedless, alas! and overtaken by desire,
He stopped, turned, looked upon Eurydice
His own once more. But with the glance,
All his labor was dissolved, broken the bond
Of that cruel tyrant, and a crash was heard
Three times like thunder in the depths of hell.
'Orpheus! what ruin has your madness wrought
On me, alas! and thee? Look! once again
The unmerciful fates recall me, and dark sleep
Closes my swimming eyes. And now farewell:
Wrapped in enormous night I am carried away,
Outstretching toward you, yours, alas! no more,
These helpless hands.' She spoke, and suddenly,
Like smoke dissolving into empty air,
Passed and was severed from his sight; nor him
Clutching vain shadows, longing sore to speak,
From then on she beheld not him, nor no second time
Hell's boatman allows him to cross the watery barrier.
What should he do? where to fly, twice bereaved?
With what tears move the Manes, with what voice
The Powers of darkness? She indeed even now
Death-cold was floating on the Stygian barge!
For seven months straight, it is said,
Beneath a craggy sky, by your lonely wave,
Strymon, he wept, and in the chilly caves
Unrolled his story, melting tigers' hearts,
And leading the oaks along with his song.
As in the poplar shade, a nightingale
Mourns her lost young, which some heartless swain,
Watching, from the nest has taken unwinged, but she
Wails through the long night, and perched on a spray
With sad insistence pipes her sorrowful tune,
Until all the area overflows with her woes.
No love, no new desire, constrained his soul:
By snow-covered Tanais and the icy north,
Far steppes forever bound to frost Rhipaean,
Alone he wandered, lost Eurydice
Lamenting, and the gifts of Dis unfathomed.
Scorned by which tribute, the Ciconian women,
Amid their dreadful Bacchanalian rites
And midnight revels, tore him limb from limb,
And scattered his remains over the wide fields.
Then too, at that time, when the Hebrus stream,
Oeagrian Hebrus, down mid-current rolled,
Torn from the marble neck, his drifting head,
The death-cold tongue still found a voice to cry
'Eurydice! ah! poor Eurydice!'
With parting breath he called her, and the banks
Of the broad stream caught up 'Eurydice!'"
So Proteus, having finished, dove into the depths,
And, where he plunged, beneath the swirling whirl
Churned into foam the water, and was gone;
But not Cyrene, who thus unhesitatingly
Addressed the trembling listener: "Nay, my son,
From that sad bosom you may banish concern:
Hence came that plague of sickness, hence the nymphs,
With whom in the tall woods she wove her dance,
Brought upon your bees, alas! this deadly bane.
Bow before the Dell-nymphs, gracious powers:
Bring gifts, and ask for forgiveness: they will grant
Peace to your pleas, and an end to fury.
But how to approach them I will first explain-
Four chosen bulls of peerless form and size,
That graze today the green Lycaean heights,
Pick from your herds, as many heifers to match,
Whose necks the yoke has never pressed; then for these
Build four altars by the high temples,
And from their throats let gush the victims' blood,
And in the greenwood leave their bodies alone.
Then, when the ninth dawn has revealed her light,
To Orpheus you shall send his funeral gifts,
Poppies of Lethe, and let a black sheep be slain,
Then seek the grove again, and soon
For forgiveness found adore Eurydice
With a slain calf for an offering."
No waiting:
The self-same hour he rushes forth to do
His mother's bidding: to the shrine he came,
The appointed altars raised, and there he led
Four chosen bulls of unmatched form and size,
With heifers to match, that never had borne a yoke;
Then, when the ninth dawn ushered in the day,
To Orpheus he sent his funeral dues, and sought
The grove once more. But suddenly, strange to say,
A portent they see: through the oxen's flesh,
Softened in dissolution, listen! there buzz
Bees from the belly; the split ribs overflow
In endless clouds they spread, until at last
On yonder tree-top together they cling,
And drop their cluster from the bending boughs.
So I sang about the cultivation of plowed fields,
Of flocks and trees, while Caesar's majesty
Launched forth the lightning-bolts of war by deep
Euphrates, and ruled over willing people
Though defeated, and sought the heights of heaven.
I, Virgil then, of sweet Parthenope
The nursling, wooed the flower-lined paths of peace
Inglorious, who once sang for shepherds
The playful ditty, and sang in mischievous youth