by Virgil
and covering the hillsides of Taburnus* with a cloak of olives?
And you, Maecenas, stand beside me now in this, the work I’ve taken on,
you to whom the largest fraction of my fame belongs by right,
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have no second thoughts before the great adventure into which I’ve launched myself.
Not that I could ever hope to feature all things in my verses—
not even if I had a hundred mouths, as many ways of speech,
and a voice as strong as iron. Stand by me now—as we proceed along the shoreline,
land close to hand. I’ll waste none of your time with made-up rhymes,
or riddles, or prolonged preambles.
Those trees which of their own accord rear themselves into the realm of light
mature unfruitful—that’s a fact—though otherwise they’re sound and strong,
and that’s due to the quality of soil. And even these,
grafted to another or set carefully in a well-worked bed,
will outgrow their wildwood ways and with attentive care
will toe the line of what you have laid down for them.
In fact, those volunteers, sprouting from the base of trees,
will do the same, if you set them out, that is, in other spaces,
but if you don’t, the parent tree’s looming leaves and branches
will smother them and nip in the bud their whole ability to bear.
Indeed, that said, the tree that rears itself from windfalls
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comes on half-heartedly and, preserving nought but shade for future generations,
its fruit will be a thing of nothing, its erstwhile flavour long forgotten,
and vines brought on this way bear only sorry sets of grapes, booty for birds.
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It’s a fact and true—all trees cry out for work,
you’ll have to train them in trenches, however trying that may be.
Olive trees fare best when grown on the trunk, vines by that practice
we’ve named layering, Paphian myrtles best from solid stems;
from slips, the healthy hazel, the mighty ash,
and the poplar out of which Hercules once made himself a garland,
just like the sacred oaks, the sky-high palm,
and the fir ahead of which lie disasters of the deep.
And, yes, through grafting, the shaggy strawberry dispenses walnuts,
and barren planes have borne a healthy pick of apples,
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chestnut trees have sponsored beeches, and pear blossom whitened
manna ash, while underneath an elm sows have prospered on a feed of acorns.
These are not straightforward acts, grafting and implanting.
You see, when buds develop inside the bark and split its skin
a narrow pocket forms right on the knot.
To this you should affix the scion,
coaxing it to meld into the sappy rind.
But knot-free trunks you cut back all the way
and into the solid bole you etch deep wedges.
Next, insert those slips that are likelier to bear—and in jig time
a mighty tree is starting up to heaven, its branches jubilant,
astounded by new foliage and fruits which aren’t its own.
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And then you’ll find there’s more than one kind of elm,
and willow, and lotus tree, and the cypresses of Ida,
more than a single species of oily olive—
this comes in every shape and size and every shade of bitterness.
There are all sorts of apples in the orchards of Alcinous;* the shoot that grows
the pear from Crustumine wouldn’t bear the Tarentine* nor those that are each one a handful.
Nor are they one and the same, the vintage grapes that drape our arbours,
as those they pick in Lesbos from the tendrils of Methymna,
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or those in Thasos off the coast of Thrace, or paler breeds from Egypt.
Some suit a fertile soil, some a lighter sort.
Psythian makes best raisin-wine, while Lagean leaves you footless—just like that!—
and ties your tongue when you least expect it.
Purple grapes, or those that ripen first—and, oh, the fruit of Rhaetia,*
what song of mine could do you justice? Fine as you are, don’t think yourself
the match of those stored in Falernian cellars. Aminnean wines, full-bodied with a long finish,
surpass that of Tmolus and even Phanae’s finest, and, of course, the humbler Argite,
though none can rival this for its great yield
or all the years it lasts in prime condition.
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Don’t think I would omit the wine of Rhodes, fit for gods
and saved till last, or Bumastus with its lavish clusters.
But there’s no number for the sorts of wine nor names
for each of them, and little to be gained by trying to concoct the list.
Who’d know them all would know how many grains of sand
the west wind pitches through Saharan wastes,
how many waves* break on the Adriatic shore
when east winds smash against a fleet of ships at sea.
Not that every soil can bear all types of things.
Willows grow by river banks, alders root
in swampy depths, the mountain ash on stony heights.
Myrtles flourish by the shore, while—here it is—Bacchus adores
wide-open uplands, and yew a chilly northern aspect.
Turn your eyes to the ends of earth and those who till its acres—
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the homes of Arabs in the east, Scythian tribes* with painted bodies.
Each nation has specific trees. None but the Indies grow
ebony, none but Arabia its sticks of incense.
What need is there for me—because you know already—to mention
fragrant resin exuded by the balsam or the pods of evergreen acacia?
Or the cotton fields of Ethiopia,
or how the Chinese* people comb silky fleeces from the leaves?
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Or mention forests, contiguous to the ocean, that are another pride of India,
or at the last outpost of earth the trees so tall
that none could fire arrows to their tips, however hard he tries,
and there they’re no mean marksmen when it comes to taking up the bow.
That bitter fruit, the citron, with its aftertaste,
is a product of Media*—and there’s no better help at hand
to wash the system of its toxins when,
with a mess of herbs and more malignant hexes,
a wicked stepmother spikes your drink.
The tree itself’s a mighty one, the image of a laurel,
and, if it weren’t for the discrepant scent it casts so far,
you’d argue it’s a laurel. No wind can make it shed its leaves,
its blossom has a stubborn hold. The Medes use it to cure
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foul odours in the mouth and treat shortness of breath in older people.
But neither the forests of Media, richest of lands,
nor glorious Ganges, nor even Hermus rattling with alluvial gold,
begin to match all that is due our praise in Italy.
No, nor Bactra,
nor the Indies,
nor Arabia and all its sands opulent with incense.
For this is land, this land of ours, no oxen ever turned with ploughs,
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their nostrils flaring flames, nor where a dragon’s teeth were sown,
nor where a human harvest trembled—in ranks of helmets and serries of spears.*
Rather, it proliferates with produce and fine wines of Monte Massico;
olives abound, and bullocks in full bloom.
From here the warhorse struts across th
e battlefield.
From here, Clitumnus,* came the washed-white flocks and the bull that was
primed for the sacrifice, those animals that often bathed in your holy waters
and drew to the temples of the gods throngs who celebrated Roman triumphs.
Here it’s constant spring—and summer out of season.
Twice cattle calve every year and twice the apple trees present their plenty.
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And—it must be said—there’s no sign here of raging tigers or lions’
seed, breed, or generation, or of monkshood that tricks anyone unfortunate to pick it;
neither does the scaly serpent drag itself through the land
in endless circles or rear itself in threatening coils.
Think of the shining cities and the accomplishments of men,
towns created by such effort on steepling rocks
with rivers rumbling underneath their ancient walls.
Is there any need for me to mention the seas that wash above it and below,
or its great lakes—you, Larius, the greatest of them all,
or Benacus with crashing waves, just like a sea?
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Is there any need for me to mention the havens and the reef’s protection
of Lucrine,* as they aggravate the sea’s resentments
where waves, repulsed, resound from far across the Sound of Julius
and drive Tyrrhenian tides through the channels of Avernus?
Deep in the veins of this land silver shows, and copper mines;
its rivers run rich with gold.
Hers are the most intrepid men—fierce Marsians, and Samnite stock;
Ligurians, misfortune’s friends; Volscian lancers*
and the Decii she produced; tribes of Marius and great Camillus;
the battle-hardened Scipios,* and you yourself, Caesar, first of all mankind,
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you who, already champion of Asia’s furthest bounds,
rebuffs the craven Indian* from the arched portals of the capital.
Hail to thee, Italy, holy mother of all that grows,
mother of men—in your honour I plunge into material and measures
prized in days of old, daring to divulge the hallowed sources
and sing a hymn to works and days through the towns of Rome.
Now to the quality of land in any place—what’s best about it,
its tints and textures, and its capacity for produce.
First that rugged country, those mean slopes,
stony soil, shallow loam, a world of brambles—
a happy home for long-lived olives.
One sure sign of such a place is oleaster in profusion,
its berries veritably blanketing the ground.
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But loamy land, that holds the spills of hills and rain,
a plain enhanced with plants and grass, proud teats of growth,
the like of which we’re used to seeing when we gaze
down into deep valleys (into which, from heights of cliffs, rivers spout
contributing the gift of mud), or high, south-facing ground
that’s liable to grow the curved share’s foe—that is bracken—
such soil will one day proffer hale and hearty vines
and plenteous wine from bulging bunches,
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a flood of grape juices, such as we pour for gods from golden goblets
as seen on altar carvings when a plump Etruscan plays his ivory pipe
and, on straining spears, we make our offerings of steaming entrails.
That said, if rearing calves and fattening lambs is what
you care to do, or even goats that rip the roots of all that grows,
try the wooded fields and open spaces at Tarentum
and rolling plains such as Mantua was misfortunate enough to lose,
where graceful swans are flourishing in weedy waters.
There’s no end there to feed and drink for stock:
what they crop in the course of one long day
dew will restore in the chill hours of one short night.
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As like as not, ground that’s black when it’s subjected to the share,
whose soil is friable (the sort we aim to reproduce by turning it),
that’s best for corn; you’ll nowhere see more waggonfuls
dragged home by struggling bullocks;
that, or lands from which a careless farmer carried timber off,
laid waste to woods that had stood tall for years on years
and wrecked the ancient habitats of birds by ripping up
roots and all. Their nestlings left, their mothers made for high sky,
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but those once straggly acres blossom now behind your team.
You’ll get gravel in a hilly place, that scarcely serves
surfeit of lowly spurge or rosemary to feed the bees;
and riddled tufa, and chalk well worn by dour watersnakes,
make plain there is no other place supplying reptiles
with such fills of food as they prefer, nor proffering such hidey-holes as they’d kill for.
Land that tosses off the whiffs of mist
and breathes in dew and breathes it out again at will,
and dresses always in its green attire,
and doesn’t tarnish tools with rust or marks of minerals—
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that’s the land for growing vines to trail around your elms and for big yields of olives;
give it a go—you’ll find it’s in good heart for grazing
or for submitting to the plough’s advances.
Among all that Capua possesses, it has that kind of land to work
along the ridges of Vesuvius, and Clanius whose floods dispeopled Acerrae.*
Listen. Here’s how you’ll tell the sort of soil you’re dealing with.
If it’s a compact one you need, or one more porous
(one’s good for corn, one for vines,
dedicate the denser one to Ceres, the looser one to Bacchus),
trust your eyes to be the judge—and order that a hole be dug
deep in the ground. Then backfill all the earth
and trample flat. A shortfall?—it’s a light soil,
fit for herds and flocks, or healthy vines.
A surplus?—leftover land when you’ve refilled
the trench—and you have heavy land on hand—
all that’s in store is sods and clods and awkward ridges:
prepare to break that ground with sturdy oxen.
As for that land that brings tears to the eyes, ‘bitter’ land as locals say
(inhospitable to harvests, that no amount of ploughing sweetens),
where vines won’t live up to their name and apples aren’t worth mentioning,
here’s how you’ll recognize it—reach to your reeky rafters
and take down the thickly woven baskets and wicker colanders for wine;
with fresh well water mix in that offending earth
and pack it to the brim; as you’d expect, the moisture
dribbles through in heavy drops.
The tip of the tongue of anyone who takes on to try it
will tell the tale, his turned-up mouth squirming with the taste.
And so, in short, a richer soil is tested, too—
toss it from hand to hand and it won’t crack or crumble,
