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  And ease the panting breathlessness of age.

  But no, not Mede-land with its wealth of woods,

  Nor Ganges fair, and Hermus thick with gold,

  Can match the praise of Italy; nor Ind,

  Nor Bactria, nor Panchaia, one wide tract

  Of incense-teeming sand. Here never bulls

  With nostrils snorting fire upturned the sod

  Sown with the monstrous dragon’s teeth, nor crop

  Of warriors bristled thick with lance and helm;

  But heavy harvests and the Massic juice

  Of Bacchus fill its borders, overspread

  With fruitful flocks and olives. Hence arose

  The war-horse stepping proudly o’er the plain;

  Hence thy white flocks, Clitumnus, and the bull,

  Of victims mightiest, which full oft have led,

  Bathed in thy sacred stream, the triumph-pomp

  Of Romans to the temples of the gods.

  Here blooms perpetual spring, and summer here

  In months that are not summer’s; twice teem the flocks;

  Twice doth the tree yield service of her fruit.

  But ravening tigers come not nigh, nor breed

  Of savage lion, nor aconite betrays

  Its hapless gatherers, nor with sweep so vast

  Doth the scaled serpent trail his endless coils

  Along the ground, or wreathe him into spires.

  Mark too her cities, so many and so proud,

  Of mighty toil the achievement, town on town

  Up rugged precipices heaved and reared,

  And rivers undergliding ancient walls.

  Or should I celebrate the sea that laves

  Her upper shores and lower? or those broad lakes?

  Thee, Larius, greatest and, Benacus, thee

  With billowy uproar surging like the main?

  Or sing her harbours, and the barrier cast

  Athwart the Lucrine, and how ocean chafes

  With mighty bellowings, where the Julian wave

  Echoes the thunder of his rout, and through

  Avernian inlets pours the Tuscan tide?

  A land no less that in her veins displays

  Rivers of silver, mines of copper ore,

  Ay, and with gold hath flowed abundantly.

  A land that reared a valiant breed of men,

  The Marsi and Sabellian youth, and, schooled

  To hardship, the Ligurian, and with these

  The Volscian javelin-armed, the Decii too,

  The Marii and Camilli, names of might,

  The Scipios, stubborn warriors, ay, and thee,

  Great Caesar, who in Asia’s utmost bounds

  With conquering arm e’en now art fending far

  The unwarlike Indian from the heights of Rome.

  Hail! land of Saturn, mighty mother thou

  Of fruits and heroes; ’tis for thee I dare

  Unseal the sacred fountains, and essay

  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 powers hath each, what hue, what natural bent

  For yielding increase. First your stubborn lands

  And churlish hill-sides, where are thorny fields

  Of meagre marl and gravel, these delight

  In long-lived olive-groves to Pallas dear.

  Take for a sign the plenteous growth hard by

  Of oleaster, and the fields strewn wide

  With woodland berries. But a soil that’s rich,

  In moisture sweet exulting, and the plain

  That teems with grasses on its fruitful breast,

  Such as full oft in hollow mountain-dell

  We view beneath us- from the craggy heights

  Streams thither flow with fertilizing mud-

  A plain which southward rising feeds the fern

  By curved ploughs detested, this one day

  Shall yield thee store of vines full strong to gush

  In torrents of the wine-god; this shall be

  Fruitful of grapes and flowing juice like that

  We pour to heaven from bowls of gold, what time

  The sleek Etruscan at the altar blows

  His ivory pipe, and on the curved dish

  We lay the reeking entrails. If to rear

  Cattle delight thee rather, steers, or lambs,

  Or goats that kill the tender plants, then seek

  Full-fed Tarentum’s glades and distant fields,

  Or such a plain as luckless Mantua lost

  Whose weedy water feeds the snow-white swan:

  There nor clear springs nor grass the flocks will fail,

  And all the day-long browsing of thy herds

  Shall the cool dews of one brief night repair.

  Land which the burrowing share shows dark and rich,

  With crumbling soil- for this we counterfeit

  In ploughing- for corn is goodliest; from no field

  More wains thou’lt see wend home with plodding steers;

  Or that from which the husbandman in spleen

  Has cleared the timber, and o’erthrown the copse

  That year on year lay idle, and from the roots

  Uptorn the immemorial haunt of birds;

  They banished from their nests have sought the skies;

  But the rude plain beneath the ploughshare’s stroke

  Starts into sudden brightness. For indeed

  The starved hill-country gravel scarce serves the bees

  With lowly cassias and with rosemary;

  Rough tufa and chalk too, by black water-worms

  Gnawed through and through, proclaim no soils beside

  So rife with serpent-dainties, or that yield

  Such winding lairs to lurk in. That again,

  Which vapoury mist and flitting smoke exhales,

  Drinks moisture up and casts it forth at will,

  Which, ever in its own green grass arrayed,

  Mars not the metal with salt scurf of rust-

  That shall thine elms with merry vines enwreathe;

  That teems with olive; that shall thy tilth prove kind

  To cattle, and patient of the curved share.

  Such ploughs rich Capua, such the coast that skirts

  Thy ridge, Vesuvius, and the Clanian flood,

  Acerrae’s desolation and her bane.

  How each to recognize now hear me tell.

  Dost ask if loose or passing firm it be-

  Since one for corn hath liking, one for wine,

  The firmer sort for Ceres, none too loose

  For thee, Lyaeus?- with scrutinizing eye

  First choose thy ground, and bid a pit be sunk

  Deep in the solid earth, then cast the mould

  All back again, and stamp the surface smooth.

  If it suffice not, loose will be the land,

  More meet for cattle and for kindly vines;

  But if, rebellious, to its proper bounds

  The soil returns not, but fills all the trench

  And overtops it, then the glebe is gross;

  Look for stiff ridges and reluctant clods,

  And with strong bullocks cleave the fallow crust.

  Salt ground again, and bitter, as ’tis called-

  Barren for fruits, by tilth untamable,

  Nor grape her kind, nor apples their good name

  Maintaining- will in this wise yield thee proof:

  Stout osier-baskets from the rafter-smoke,

  And strainers of the winepress pluck thee down;

  Hereinto let that evil land, with fresh

  Spring-water mixed, be trampled to the full;

  The moisture, mark you, will ooze all away,

  In big drops issuing through the osier-withes,

  But plainly will its taste the secret tell,

  And with a harsh twang ruefully distort

  The mouths of them that try it. Ric
h soil again

  We learn on this wise: tossed from hand to hand

  Yet cracks it never, but pitch-like, as we hold,

  Clings to the fingers. A land with moisture rife

  Breeds lustier herbage, and is more than meet

  Prolific. Ah I may never such for me

  O’er-fertile prove, or make too stout a show

  At the first earing! Heavy land or light

  The mute self-witness of its weight betrays.

  A glance will serve to warn thee which is black,

  Or what the hue of any. But hard it is

  To track the signs of that pernicious cold:

  Pines only, noxious yews, and ivies dark

  At times reveal its traces.

  All these rules

  Regarding, let your land, ay, long before,

  Scorch to the quick, and into trenches carve

  The mighty mountains, and their upturned clods

  Bare to the north wind, ere thou plant therein

  The vine’s prolific kindred. Fields whose soil

  Is crumbling are the best: winds look to that,

  And bitter hoar-frosts, and the delver’s toil

  Untiring, as he stirs the loosened glebe.

  But those, whose vigilance no care escapes,

  Search for a kindred site, where first to rear

  A nursery for the trees, and eke whereto

  Soon to translate them, lest the sudden shock

  From their new mother the young plants estrange.

  Nay, even the quarter of the sky they brand

  Upon the bark, that each may be restored,

  As erst it stood, here bore the southern heats,

  Here turned its shoulder to the northern pole;

  So strong is custom formed in early years.

  Whether on hill or plain ’tis best to plant

  Your vineyard first inquire. If on some plain

  You measure out rich acres, then plant thick;

  Thick planting makes no niggard of the vine;

  But if on rising mound or sloping bill,

  Then let the rows have room, so none the less

  Each line you draw, when all the trees are set,

  May tally to perfection. Even as oft

  In mighty war, whenas the legion’s length

  Deploys its cohorts, and the column stands

  In open plain, the ranks of battle set,

  And far and near with rippling sheen of arms

  The wide earth flickers, nor yet in grisly strife

  Foe grapples foe, but dubious ‘twixt the hosts

  The war-god wavers; so let all be ranged

  In equal rows symmetric, not alone

  To feed an idle fancy with the view,

  But since not otherwise will earth afford

  Vigour to all alike, nor yet the boughs

  Have power to stretch them into open space.

  Shouldst haply of the furrow’s depth inquire,

  Even to a shallow trench I dare commit

  The vine; but deeper in the ground is fixed

  The tree that props it, aesculus in chief,

  Which howso far its summit soars toward heaven,

  So deep strikes root into the vaults of hell.

  It therefore neither storms, nor blasts, nor showers

  Wrench from its bed; unshaken it abides,

  Sees many a generation, many an age

  Of men roll onward, and survives them all,

  Stretching its titan arms and branches far,

  Sole central pillar of a world of shade.

  Nor toward the sunset let thy vineyards slope,

  Nor midst the vines plant hazel; neither take

  The topmost shoots for cuttings, nor from the top

  Of the supporting tree your suckers tear;

  So deep their love of earth; nor wound the plants

  With blunted blade; nor truncheons intersperse

  Of the wild olive: for oft from careless swains

  A spark hath fallen, that, ‘neath the unctuous rind

  Hid thief-like first, now grips the tough tree-bole,

  And mounting to the leaves on high, sends forth

  A roar to heaven, then coursing through the boughs

  And airy summits reigns victoriously,

  Wraps all the grove in robes of fire, and gross

  With pitch-black vapour heaves the murky reek

  Skyward, but chiefly if a storm has swooped

  Down on the forest, and a driving wind

  Rolls up the conflagration. When ’tis so,

  Their root-force fails them, nor, when lopped away,

  Can they recover, and from the earth beneath

  Spring to like verdure; thus alone survives

  The bare wild olive with its bitter leaves.

  Let none persuade thee, howso weighty-wise,

  To stir the soil when stiff with Boreas’ breath.

  Then ice-bound winter locks the fields, nor lets

  The young plant fix its frozen root to earth.

  Best sow your vineyards when in blushing Spring

  Comes the white bird long-bodied snakes abhor,

  Or on the eve of autumn’s earliest frost,

  Ere the swift sun-steeds touch the wintry Signs,

  While summer is departing. Spring it is

  Blesses the fruit-plantation, Spring the groves;

  In Spring earth swells and claims the fruitful seed.

  Then Aether, sire omnipotent, leaps down

  With quickening showers to his glad wife’s embrace,

  And, might with might commingling, rears to life

  All germs that teem within her; then resound

  With songs of birds the greenwood-wildernesses,

  And in due time the herds their loves renew;

  Then the boon earth yields increase, and the fields

  Unlock their bosoms to the warm west winds;

  Soft moisture spreads o’er all things, and the blades

  Face the new suns, and safely trust them now;

  The vine-shoot, fearless of the rising south,

  Or mighty north winds driving rain from heaven,

  Bursts into bud, and every leaf unfolds.

  Even so, methinks, when Earth to being sprang,

  Dawned the first days, and such the course they held;

  ’Twas Spring-tide then, ay, Spring, the mighty world

  Was keeping: Eurus spared his wintry blasts,

  When first the flocks drank sunlight, and a race

  Of men like iron from the hard glebe arose,

  And wild beasts thronged the woods, and stars the heaven.

  Nor could frail creatures bear this heavy strain,

  Did not so large a respite interpose

  ‘Twixt frost and heat, and heaven’s relenting arms

  Yield earth a welcome.

  For the rest, whate’er

  The sets thou plantest in thy fields, thereon

  Strew refuse rich, and with abundant earth

  Take heed to hide them, and dig in withal

  Rough shells or porous stone, for therebetween

  Will water trickle and fine vapour creep,

  And so the plants their drooping spirits raise.

  Aye, and there have been, who with weight of stone

  Or heavy potsherd press them from above;

  This serves for shield in pelting showers, and this

  When the hot dog-star chaps the fields with drought.

  The slips once planted, yet remains to cleave

  The earth about their roots persistently,

  And toss the cumbrous hoes, or task the soil

  With burrowing plough-share, and ply up and down

  Your labouring bullocks through the vineyard’s midst,

  Then too smooth reeds and shafts of whittled wand,

  And ashen poles and sturdy forks to shape,

  Whereby supported they may learn to mount,

  Laugh at the gales, and through the elm-to
ps win

  From story up to story.

  Now while yet

  The leaves are in their first fresh infant growth,

  Forbear their frailty, and while yet the bough

  Shoots joyfully toward heaven, with loosened rein

  Launched on the void, assail it not as yet

  With keen-edged sickle, but let the leaves alone

  Be culled with clip of fingers here and there.

  But when they clasp the elms with sturdy trunks

  Erect, then strip the leaves off, prune the boughs;

  Sooner they shrink from steel, but then put forth

  The arm of power, and stem the branchy tide.

  Hedges too must be woven and all beasts

  Barred entrance, chiefly while the leaf is young

  And witless of disaster; for therewith,

  Beside harsh winters and o’erpowering sun,

  Wild buffaloes and pestering goats for ay

  Besport them, sheep and heifers glut their greed.

  Nor cold by hoar-frost curdled, nor the prone

  Dead weight of summer upon the parched crags,

  So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite

  Of their hard tooth, whose gnawing scars the stem.

  For no offence but this to Bacchus bleeds

  The goat at every altar, and old plays

  Upon the stage find entrance; therefore too

  The sons of Theseus through the country-side-

  Hamlet and crossway- set the prize of wit,

  And on the smooth sward over oiled skins

  Dance in their tipsy frolic. Furthermore

  The Ausonian swains, a race from Troy derived,

  Make merry with rough rhymes and boisterous mirth,

  Grim masks of hollowed bark assume, invoke

  Thee with glad hymns, O Bacchus, and to thee

  Hang puppet-faces on tall pines to swing.

  Hence every vineyard teems with mellowing fruit,

  Till hollow vale o’erflows, and gorge profound,

  Where’er the god hath turned his comely head.

  Therefore to Bacchus duly will we sing

  Meet honour with ancestral hymns, and cates

  And dishes bear him; and the doomed goat

  Led by the horn shall at the altar stand,

  Whose entrails rich on hazel-spits we’ll roast.

  This further task again, to dress the vine,

  Hath needs beyond exhausting; the whole soil

  Thrice, four times, yearly must be cleft, the sod

  With hoes reversed be crushed continually,

  The whole plantation lightened of its leaves.

  Round on the labourer spins the wheel of toil,

  As on its own track rolls the circling year.

  Soon as the vine her lingering leaves hath shed,

  And the chill north wind from the forests shook

  Their coronal, even then the careful swain