by Virgil
no, it clings to fingers just like pitch.
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Soggy soil gives massive growth, more than’s natural.
Preserve me from such profusions,
or such excess when new shoots show!
Whether soil is light or heavy you’ll know without a word.
A glance will tell black earth, or whatever colour
it turns out to be. It’s harder far to figure out
earth that’s cursed to be cold, though now and then giant pines,
poisonous yews, and dark climbs of ivy give a clue.
Keep all this in mind. Let moisture burn off from the ground,
divide the uplands into trenches,
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turn over any clods of earth to face winds from the north—
all this before you set your sprigs of vine. A crumbly soil
is best of all—broken down by grace of frosts and freezing winds,
and the ongoing toil of diggers who have worked the plot, perch by perch and rood by rood.
But those whose eyes watch everything miss nothing.
Begin by searching out two soils that are the same in which to start your seedlings
in order that when, by and by, you transplant them
they won’t feel any difference from what surrounds their mother tree.
What’s more—you print the mark of compass points onto the bark
to show which way each used to face and know which bore the heat
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of southern suns, which kept its back hunched to the north,
so deep ingrained are habits formed in younger days.
Ask yourself, before you start, whether it’s best to place your vines
on rising ground, or flat. If it’s a fertile plain you plan to set
lay out your plants together. Close sowing won’t put brakes on Bacchus.
But if it’s land that rises up to touch the sky, or hills that reach into the distance,
be generous with room between the rows. Make sure that they run parallel
and still maintain right angles* with the boundary lines,
the way in war you’d often see a legion massed in ranks,
its cohorts standing—and standing out—on open ground,
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aligned and at the ready, the everywhere just like a glittering stretch of sea,
and the flash of bronze, the clash of conflict still not started,
though the god of war roams edgily, in and out among battalions. Let all the avenues be equal,
not only so an idle eye might linger on the view
but because no other method gets the earth to give in matching measures
and grants the boughs free rein and the run of air.
And you’ll wonder maybe how far down to dig.
I’d be happy, I believe, to set the vines in shallow trenches.
But trees need to be driven deeper, and none more than
the dun must oak which holds its head to heaven,
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with as much above the ground as its roots below delve into the pits of Tartarus.
And so it can’t be overthrown by wintry weather, gusts of wind
or spills of rains, as it stands undaunted, outlasting lives
of sons and grandsons, a vanquisher of ages.
Far and wide it spreads its sturdy boughs, its branches hanging,
and in their midst its trunk, the mainstay of its massive shade.
Whatever else you do, don’t have your vineyard face toward the setting sun;
sow no hazels in the rows; don’t pinch the main part
of the shoot, nor prune the topmost splays of trees—
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they love the earth so tenderly—you mustn’t brush against a sapling
even with blunt instruments; don’t introduce wild olive stakes.
For careless shepherds often cause a fire by letting fall a spark
that smoulders unobserved beneath the oily bark
and then runs riot among the leaves, racing
its rowdy roar as it chases sideways on and up,
lording it over every branch and the tips of every trunk,
enveloping the wood in flames and belching skywards clouds
of soot-filled smoke, the more so if a gale spins through
the forest roof and winds rush in to fan the blaze.
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When the like of this occurs, plants give up the ghost.
Burn grafted trees to the roots, and they’re left with nothing left to give,
nothing their own. Cut to the quick, they’ll never send the same green shoots
out from deep below the ground. Oleaster that’s all leaf and little fruit stands to triumph.
Pay no heed to anyone, however well he’s versed in plant production,
who tells you to begin to plough rock-solid land while north winds still
bare their teeth. When winter seals the countryside
broadcast corn can’t get a foothold in the soil.
It’s spring’s first flush that’s best for sowing vines,
when that bright bird returns, the bane of lanky snakes,
or, if not then, the first cold snap of autumn, before the sun’s
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fiery steeds have touched on winter, although, in truth, the summer’s gone already.
Spring it is, spring that’s good to the core of the wood, to the leaves of groves,
spring that reawakens soil and coaxes seeds to fruitfulness.
It’s then almighty father, Air, marries the earth*
and penetrates her with prolific showers, and, their bodies joined
as one, unbridles life’s potential.
The woodlands off the beaten track reverberate with singing birds
and, right on time, cattle come into their season—
the countryside stands to deliver—and in the warmth of western breezes
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the plains let down their very breasts; a gentle wash infuses everything
and new growth ventures to believe it’s safe beneath the young,
still unfamiliar sun, and vine shoots fear no southern gales
nor roaring northerlies that scour rain clouds from the sky;
rather, they prompt their buds to boldness and leaves to colour
everywhere. That days were not that different at the dawning
of the world I can easily believe, nor proceeded differently.
Then it was spring, all basked in spring,
and winter’s winds bit their tongue—
all this when livestock first unclosed their eyes
and man, begot of rocks, first held up his head,
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with creatures loosed to roam woodscape and stars to ramble skies.
Indeed, how could such tender growth survive vicissitudes
if there were not between the cold and warmth a spell of dreamlike quiet,
when heaven’s kindness brought its gift of ease?
What’s more, whenever you set down your slips
don’t forget to land them well,
or dig in around them bits of pervious stone and broken shells.
It’s known well that waters will soak through them
and their gentle vapours spread to pick the plants’ spirits up.
Men have experimented by laying slabs and broken tiles
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to offer them protection from the pouring rain or, even, on those days
the Dog Star’s heat intensifies to parch and crack the soil.
When you’ve your seedlings put to bed you’ve still to go over the ground,
time and again, up to where the vine appears, scuffling soil
with your clawed hoe, to plough the earth steadily
and steer your straining oxen up and down the vineyard rows.
Then prepare the pliant reeds, whittled sticks and stakes of ash,
the sturdy forked supports through whose a
ssistance
they can begin to climb fearless of wind
and fit themselves to the crowns of elms.
And all the while they’re putting out their fragile leaves
treat the shoots with gentlest care, and while their branches
venture high, given free rein in the sky,
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don’t even glance against them with the pruning hook’s keen edge—
no, use your fingertips to pluck this one here, and that one there.
And in due course, when they’ve their arms around those trees
(a strong embrace), it’s time to trim their tops, time
to crop their branches (prior to this they’ll wilt before any iron implement),
impose your will and curb their wayward leaders.
There are hedges to be laid, to keep out each and any beast,
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especially when the leaves are delicate and unaccustomed to attack,
winter’s cruelty or the worst extremes of summer,
not to mention rampant buffalo and deer nibbling havoc there,
or sheep and brawly heifers that eat their fill.
No winter weather, its hardest frosts,
nor summer’s heat that splits the stones,
did hurt to them to equal herds and flocks,
their toothmarks’ harm, the scars they’ve inscribed in the bark.
And they’re the why, such transgressions, a goat is sacrificed
on every altar to the wine god—since our elders started to stage plays
and the sons of Theseus rewarded talent along the highways and the byways
and, with drink taken, took to hopping here and there,
a dance on greasy hides, and toppling in soft grass.
So, too, Ausonian settlers—who came from Troy—
recited their rough-hewn verse to entertain the masses,
and put on scary masks cut out of bark
and called on you, Bacchus, in rousing song,
and in your honour dangled from the tips of pines tender tokens.*
And it ensues that every vineyard crests and fills,
valleys teem, and deep ravines—
anywhere the god took in with his goodly gaze.
Therefore, as is only right, we accord to Bacchus due respect
with songs our fathers sang and trays of baked offerings
and, led by the horn, the sacrificial puck is set before the altar
and his spewling innards roasted on hazel skewers.
Still there’s more to do in the upkeep of the vines,
the work that’s never finished, for every year, three times or four,
you have to air the soil, by crushing clods time and time again
with your hoe’s heel, and not neglect to relieve the whole plantation
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of its load of leaves.
The farmer’s chores come round
in seasons and cycles, as the earth each year retraces its own tracks.
And even while the yard relinquishes the last, lingering leaves
and a northerly divests woods of their panache
the keen countryman is turning thoughts to the year ahead
and all that’s to be done in it: with his curved blade he’ll prune each branch
and shape it to his own design. Then, as soon as possible,
he’ll rake the bed, set fire to his cuttings,
bring under cover vine supports and then, as late as late can be,
he’ll draw the harvest home. Time and again, year on year,
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vines bow beneath a cloud and sink into the grip of
undergrowth—ever more to do!
So cast a hungry eye on a big estate if you’re inclined,
but tend a small one.
What’s more, you’ll find throughout the
woods rough sprigs
of butcher’s broom and all along the river banks reeds needing to be trimmed,
and, elsewhere, willows crying out for your attention—that will keep you on the go.
Say grape branches are bound up, orchards finished with the pruning hook,
and the vine-dresser furthest down the rows starts to sing of work well done,
you’ve still to hoe the earth, to scuff and shuffle the light soil,
and keep a weather watch on the clusters as they ripen.
On the other hand, the olive thrives almost by neglect,
needing no encounter with hooked hoe or sickle blade
once it’s found its feet in fields and faced the winds (and faced them down).
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The earth itself, once it’s been broken open, provides sufficient moisture
for growing plants to yield rich harvests in the ploughshare’s wake.
That’s the way you’ll cultivate the best of olives—choice of Peace.
Just as apples, as soon as they have sensed a surge of strength
along their trunks, stretch quickly for the stars all on their own—
they need no helping hand from us.
And all the while wild woodlands teem with fruits,
and the preserves of birds blaze with blood-red berries.
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Clover’s cut for fodder. Deep woods provide pitch pines
that feed the evening fires and broadcast light.
Have men still second thoughts about setting seeds and the attendant cares?
What ties me to the theme of bigger trees? Broom and lowly willow
supply sufficient food for stock and shade for countrymen,
hedges for crop land and honey’s essence.
What joy to feast my eyes on waves of boxwood by Cytorus
and on the stands of pine near Narycum,* what joy to set my sights
on fields no mattock ever scratched, that owe no debt to human effort.
Even in those fruitless forests found in the heights of Caucasus
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which south-east winds assault and batter
each tree gives something of its own—the pines give timber, wood that’s good
for building boats, the cypresses and cedars wood that’s good for building houses.
And it’s from here that countrymen procured turned spokes for wheels,
and axles for their waggons, and the long curved keels of their ships.
No bother to the willow, a source of withies; nor to the elm, of
foliage for fodder;
while myrtle shafts make sturdy spears, as do the cornel cherry’s—
the best for war. Yews are best for the Ituraean bows.*
Soft lime and boxwood polished on a lathe
surrender to the shape the chisel’s edge imposes;
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while the alder, launched into its raging torrents, speeds sprightly
down the Po, and swarms of bees* set up their colonies
in hollow cork and the belly of a boast holm oak.
What offerings from Bacchus are more worthy of remembering?
Bacchus! He it was who gave cause to crime, he who smote
the maddened Centaurs* with a mortal blow—Rhoecus, Pholus,
and Hylaeus, the one who’d deranged the Lapiths with a power of wine.
