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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 shallowtrench 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-tops 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

Looks keenly forward to the coming year,
With Saturn's curved fang pursues and prunes

The vine forlorn, and lops it into shape.
Be first to dig the ground up, first to clear

And burn the refuse-branches, first to house
Again your vine-poles, last to gather fruit.

Twice doth the thickening shade beset the vine,
Twice weeds with stifling briers o'ergrow the crop;

And each a toilsome labour. Do thou praise
Broad acres, farm but few. Rough twigs beside

Of butcher's broom among the woods are cut,
And reeds upon the river-banks, and still

The undressed willow claims thy fostering care.
So now the vines are fettered, now the trees

Let go the sickle, and the last dresser now
Sings of his finished rows; but still the ground

Must vexed be, the dust be stirred, and heaven
Still set thee trembling for the ripened grapes.

Not so with olives; small husbandry need they,
Nor look for sickle bowed or biting rake,

When once they have gripped the soil, and borne the breeze.
Earth of herself, with hooked fang laid bare,

Yields moisture for the plants, and heavy fruit,
The ploughshare aiding; therewithal thou'lt rear

The olive's fatness well-beloved of Peace.
Apples, moreover, soon as first they feel

Their stems wax lusty, and have found their strength,
To heaven climb swiftly, self-impelled, nor crave

Our succour. All the grove meanwhile no less
With fruit is swelling, and the wild haunts of birds

Blush with their blood-red berries. Cytisus
Is good to browse on, the tall forest yields

Pine-torches, and the nightly fires are fed
And shoot forth radiance. And shall men be loath

To plant, nor lavish of their pains? Why trace
Things mightier? Willows even and lowly brooms

To cattle their green leaves, to shepherds shade,
Fences for crops, and food for honey yield.

And blithe it is Cytorus to behold


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