Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  In drowsy sloth to stagnate. Before Jove

  Fields knew no taming hand of husbandmen;

  To mark the plain or mete with boundary-line-

  Even this was impious; for the common stock

  They gathered, and the earth of her own will

  All things more freely, no man bidding, bore.

  He to black serpents gave their venom-bane,

  And bade the wolf go prowl, and ocean toss;

  Shook from the leaves their honey, put fire away,

  And curbed the random rivers running wine,

  That use by gradual dint of thought on thought

  Might forge the various arts, with furrow’s help

  The corn-blade win, and strike out hidden fire

  From the flint’s heart. Then first the streams were ware

  Of hollowed alder-hulls: the sailor then

  Their names and numbers gave to star and star,

  Pleiads and Hyads, and Lycaon’s child

  Bright Arctos; how with nooses then was found

  To catch wild beasts, and cozen them with lime,

  And hem with hounds the mighty forest-glades.

  Soon one with hand-net scourges the broad stream,

  Probing its depths, one drags his dripping toils

  Along the main; then iron’s unbending might,

  And shrieking saw-blade,- for the men of old

  With wedges wont to cleave the splintering log;-

  Then divers arts arose; toil conquered all,

  Remorseless toil, and poverty’s shrewd push

  In times of hardship. Ceres was the first

  Set mortals on with tools to turn the sod,

  When now the awful groves ‘gan fail to bear

  Acorns and arbutes, and her wonted food

  Dodona gave no more. Soon, too, the corn

  Gat sorrow’s increase, that an evil blight

  Ate up the stalks, and thistle reared his spines

  An idler in the fields; the crops die down;

  Upsprings instead a shaggy growth of burrs

  And caltrops; and amid the corn-fields trim

  Unfruitful darnel and wild oats have sway.

  Wherefore, unless thou shalt with ceaseless rake

  The weeds pursue, with shouting scare the birds,

  Prune with thy hook the dark field’s matted shade,

  Pray down the showers, all vainly thou shalt eye,

  Alack! thy neighbour’s heaped-up harvest-mow,

  And in the greenwood from a shaken oak

  Seek solace for thine hunger.

  Now to tell

  The sturdy rustics’ weapons, what they are,

  Without which, neither can be sown nor reared

  The fruits of harvest; first the bent plough’s share

  And heavy timber, and slow-lumbering wains

  Of the Eleusinian mother, threshing-sleighs

  And drags, and harrows with their crushing weight;

  Then the cheap wicker-ware of Celeus old,

  Hurdles of arbute, and thy mystic fan,

  Iacchus; which, full tale, long ere the time

  Thou must with heed lay by, if thee await

  Not all unearned the country’s crown divine.

  While yet within the woods, the elm is tamed

  And bowed with mighty force to form the stock,

  And take the plough’s curved shape, then nigh the root

  A pole eight feet projecting, earth-boards twain,

  And share-beam with its double back they fix.

  For yoke is early hewn a linden light,

  And a tall beech for handle, from behind

  To turn the car at lowest: then o’er the hearth

  The wood they hang till the smoke knows it well.

  Many the precepts of the men of old

  I can recount thee, so thou start not back,

  And such slight cares to learn not weary thee.

  And this among the first: thy threshing-floor

  With ponderous roller must be levelled smooth,

  And wrought by hand, and fixed with binding chalk,

  Lest weeds arise, or dust a passage win

  Splitting the surface, then a thousand plagues

  Make sport of it: oft builds the tiny mouse

  Her home, and plants her granary, underground,

  Or burrow for their bed the purblind moles,

  Or toad is found in hollows, and all the swarm

  Of earth’s unsightly creatures; or a huge

  Corn-heap the weevil plunders, and the ant,

  Fearful of coming age and penury.

  Mark too, what time the walnut in the woods

  With ample bloom shall clothe her, and bow down

  Her odorous branches, if the fruit prevail,

  Like store of grain will follow, and there shall come

  A mighty winnowing-time with mighty heat;

  But if the shade with wealth of leaves abound,

  Vainly your threshing-floor will bruise the stalks

  Rich but in chaff. Many myself have seen

  Steep, as they sow, their pulse-seeds, drenching them

  With nitre and black oil-lees, that the fruit

  Might swell within the treacherous pods, and they

  Make speed to boil at howso small a fire.

  Yet, culled with caution, proved with patient toil,

  These have I seen degenerate, did not man

  Put forth his hand with power, and year by year

  Choose out the largest. So, by fate impelled,

  Speed all things to the worse, and backward borne

  Glide from us; even as who with struggling oars

  Up stream scarce pulls a shallop, if he chance

  His arms to slacken, lo! with headlong force

  The current sweeps him down the hurrying tide.

  Us too behoves Arcturus’ sign observe,

  And the Kids’ seasons and the shining Snake,

  No less than those who o’er the windy main

  Borne homeward tempt the Pontic, and the jaws

  Of oyster-rife Abydos. When the Scales

  Now poising fair the hours of sleep and day

  Give half the world to sunshine, half to shade,

  Then urge your bulls, my masters; sow the plain

  Even to the verge of tameless winter’s showers

  With barley: then, too, time it is to hide

  Your flax in earth, and poppy, Ceres’ joy,

  Aye, more than time to bend above the plough,

  While earth, yet dry, forbids not, and the clouds

  Are buoyant. With the spring comes bean-sowing;

  Thee, too, Lucerne, the crumbling furrows then

  Receive, and millet’s annual care returns,

  What time the white bull with his gilded horns

  Opens the year, before whose threatening front,

  Routed the dog-star sinks. But if it be

  For wheaten harvest and the hardy spelt,

  Thou tax the soil, to corn-ears wholly given,

  Let Atlas’ daughters hide them in the dawn,

  The Cretan star, a crown of fire, depart,

  Or e’er the furrow’s claim of seed thou quit,

  Or haste thee to entrust the whole year’s hope

  To earth that would not. Many have begun

  Ere Maia’s star be setting; these, I trow,

  Their looked-for harvest fools with empty ears.

  But if the vetch and common kidney-bean

  Thou’rt fain to sow, nor scorn to make thy care

  Pelusiac lentil, no uncertain sign

  Bootes’ fall will send thee; then begin,

  Pursue thy sowing till half the frosts be done.

  Therefore it is the golden sun, his course

  Into fixed parts dividing, rules his way

  Through the twelve constellations of the world.

  Five zones the heavens contain; whereof is one

  Aye red with flashing sunlight, fervent
aye

  From fire; on either side to left and right

  Are traced the utmost twain, stiff with blue ice,

  And black with scowling storm-clouds, and betwixt

  These and the midmost, other twain there lie,

  By the Gods’ grace to heart-sick mortals given,

  And a path cleft between them, where might wheel

  On sloping plane the system of the Signs.

  And as toward Scythia and Rhipaean heights

  The world mounts upward, likewise sinks it down

  Toward Libya and the south, this pole of ours

  Still towering high, that other, ‘neath their feet,

  By dark Styx frowned on, and the abysmal shades.

  Here glides the huge Snake forth with sinuous coils

  ‘Twixt the two Bears and round them river-wise-

  The Bears that fear ‘neath Ocean’s brim to dip.

  There either, say they, reigns the eternal hush

  Of night that knows no seasons, her black pall

  Thick-mantling fold on fold; or thitherward

  From us returning 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 ‘gins to trim his his ‘lated fires.

  Hence under doubtful skies forebode we can

  The coming tempests, hence both harvest-day

  And seed-time, when to smite the treacherous main

  With driving oars, when launch the fair-rigged fleet,

  Or in ripe hour to fell the forest-pine.

  Hence, too, not idly do we watch the stars-

  Their rising and their setting-and the year,

  Four varying seasons to one law conformed.

  If chilly showers e’er shut the farmer’s door,

  Much that had soon with sunshine cried for haste,

  He may forestall; the ploughman batters keen

  His blunted share’s hard tooth, scoops from a tree

  His troughs, or on the cattle stamps a brand,

  Or numbers on the corn-heaps; some make sharp

  The stakes and two-pronged forks, and willow-bands

  Amerian for the bending vine prepare.

  Now let the pliant basket plaited be

  Of bramble-twigs; now set your corn to parch

  Before the fire; now bruise it with the stone.

  Nay even on holy days some tasks to ply

  Is right and lawful: this no ban forbids,

  To turn the runnel’s course, fence corn-fields in,

  Make springes for the birds, burn up the briars,

  And plunge in wholesome stream the bleating flock.

  Oft too with oil or apples plenty-cheap

  The creeping ass’s ribs his driver packs,

  And home from town returning brings instead

  A dented mill-stone or black lump of pitch.

  The moon herself in various rank assigns

  The days for labour lucky: fly the fifth;

  Then sprang pale Orcus and the Eumenides;

  Earth then in awful labour brought to light

  Coeus, Iapetus, and Typhoeus fell,

  And those sworn brethren banded to break down

  The gates of heaven; thrice, sooth to say, they strove

  Ossa on Pelion’s top to heave and heap,

  Aye, and on Ossa to up-roll amain

  Leafy Olympus; thrice with thunderbolt

  Their mountain-stair the Sire asunder smote.

  Seventh after tenth is lucky both to set

  The vine in earth, and take and tame the steer,

  And fix the leashes to the warp; the ninth

  To runagates is kinder, cross to thieves.

  Many the tasks that lightlier lend themselves

  In chilly night, or when the sun is young,

  And Dawn bedews the world. By night ’tis best

  To reap light stubble, and parched fields by night;

  For nights the suppling moisture never fails.

  And one will sit the long late watches out

  By winter fire-light, shaping with keen blade

  The torches to a point; his wife the while,

  Her tedious labour soothing with a song,

  Speeds the shrill comb along the warp, or else

  With Vulcan’s aid boils the sweet must-juice down,

  And skims with leaves the quivering cauldron’s wave.

  But ruddy Ceres in mid heat is mown,

  And in mid heat the parched ears are bruised

  Upon the floor; to plough strip, strip to sow;

  Winter’s the lazy time for husbandmen.

  In the cold season farmers wont to taste

  The increase of their toil, and yield themselves

  To mutual interchange of festal cheer.

  Boon winter bids them, and unbinds their cares,

  As laden keels, when now the port they touch,

  And happy sailors crown the sterns with flowers.

  Nathless then also time it is to strip

  Acorns from oaks, and berries from the bay,

  Olives, and bleeding myrtles, then to set

  Snares for the crane, and meshes for the stag,

  And hunt the long-eared hares, then pierce the doe

  With whirl of hempen-thonged Balearic sling,

  While snow lies deep, and streams are drifting ice.

  What need to tell of autumn’s storms and stars,

  And wherefore men must watch, when now the day

  Grows shorter, and more soft the summer’s heat?

  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 stalk is swelling? Many a time,

  When now the farmer to his yellow fields

  The reaping-hind came bringing, even in act

  To lop the brittle barley stems, have I

  Seen all the windy legions clash in war

  Together, as to rend up far and wide

  The heavy corn-crop from its lowest roots,

  And toss it skyward: so might winter’s flaw,

  Dark-eddying, whirl light stalks and flying straws.

  Oft too comes looming vast along the sky

  A march of waters; mustering from above,

  The clouds roll up the tempest, heaped and grim

  With angry showers: down falls the height of heaven,

  And with a great rain floods the smiling crops,

  The oxen’s labour: now the dikes fill fast,

  And the void river-beds swell thunderously,

  And all the panting firths of Ocean boil.

  The Sire himself in midnight of the clouds

  Wields with red hand the levin; through all her bulk

  Earth at the hurly quakes; the beasts are fled,

  And mortal hearts of every kindred sunk

  In cowering terror; he with flaming brand

  Athos, or Rhodope, or Ceraunian crags

  Precipitates: then doubly raves the South

  With shower on blinding shower, and woods and coasts

  Wail fitfully beneath the mighty blast.

  This fearing, mark the months and Signs of heaven,

  Whither retires him Saturn’s icy star,

  And through what heavenly cycles wandereth

  The glowing orb Cyllenian. Before all

  Worship the Gods, and to great Ceres pay

  Her yearly dues upon the happy sward

  With sacrifice, anigh the utmost end

  Of winter, and when Spring begins to smile.

  Then lambs are fat, and wines are mellowest then;

  Then sleep is sweet, and dark the shadows fall

  Upon the mountains. Let your rustic youth

  To Ceres do obeisance, one and all;

  And for her pleasure thou mix honeycombs

  With milk and the ripe wine-god; thrice for luck

&nb
sp; Around the young corn let the victim go,

  And all the choir, a joyful company,

  Attend it, and with shouts bid Ceres come

  To be their house-mate; and let no man dare

  Put sickle to the ripened ears until,

  With woven oak his temples chapleted,

  He foot the rugged dance and chant the lay.

  Aye, and that these things we might win to know

  By certain tokens, heats, and showers, and winds

  That bring the frost, the Sire of all himself

  Ordained what warnings in her monthly round

  The moon should give, what bodes the south wind’s fall,

  What oft-repeated sights the herdsman seeing

  Should keep his cattle closer to their stalls.

  No sooner are the winds at point to rise,

  Than either Ocean’s firths begin to toss

  And swell, and a dry crackling sound is heard

  Upon the heights, or one loud ferment booms

  The beach afar, and through the forest goes

  A murmur multitudinous. By this

  Scarce can the billow spare the curved keels,

  When swift the sea-gulls from the middle main

  Come winging, and their shrieks are shoreward borne,

  When ocean-loving cormorants on dry land

  Besport them, and the hern, her marshy haunts

  Forsaking, mounts above the soaring cloud.

  Oft, too, when wind is toward, the stars thou’lt see

  From heaven shoot headlong, and through murky night

  Long trails of fire white-glistening in their wake,

  Or light chaff flit in air with fallen leaves,

  Or feathers on the wave-top float and play.

  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 mariner but furls his dripping sails.

  Never at unawares did shower annoy:

  Or, as it rises, the high-soaring cranes

  Flee to the vales before it, with face

  Upturned to heaven, the heifer snuffs the gale

  Through gaping nostrils, or about the meres

  Shrill-twittering flits the swallow, and the frogs

  Crouch in the mud and chant their dirge of old.

  Oft, too, the ant from out her inmost cells,

  Fretting the narrow path, her eggs conveys;

  Or the huge bow sucks moisture; or a host

  Of rooks from food returning in long line

  Clamour with jostling wings. Now mayst thou see

  The various ocean-fowl and those that pry

  Round Asian meads within thy fresher-pools,

  Cayster, as in eager rivalry,

  About their shoulders dash the plenteous spray,