The Georgics

What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn; The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine; And how to raise on elms the teeming vine; The birth and genius of the frugal bee, I sing, Maecenas, and I sing to thee.

Ye deities! who fields and plains protect, Who rule the seasons, and the year direct, Bacchus and fostering Ceres, powers divine, Who gave us corn for mast, for water, wine: Ye Fawns, propitious to the rural swains, Ye Nymphs that haunt the mountains and the plains, Join in my work, and to my numbers bring Your needful succour; for your gifts I sing.

Nor was the fact foretold by him alone: Nature her self stood forth, and seconded the sun. Earth, air, and seas, with prodigies were signed; And birds obscene, and howling dogs, divined. What rocks did Aetna’s bellowing mouth expire From her torn entrails! and what floods of fire! What clanks were heard, in German skies afar. Of arms, and armies, rushing to the war! Dire earthquakes rent the solid Alps below, And from their summits shook the eternal snow; Pale spectres in the close of night were seen, And voices heard, of more than mortal men, In silent groves: dumb sheep and oxen spoke; And streams ran backward, and their beds forsook; The yawning earth disclosed the abyss of hell: The weeping statues did the wars foretell; And holy sweat from brazen idols fell. Then, rising in his might, the king of floods Rushed through the forests, tore the lofty woods, And, rolling onward, with a sweepy sway, Bore houses, herds, and labouring hinds away. Blood sprang from wells; wolves howled in towns by night. And boding victims did the priests affright. Such peals of thunder never poured from high, Nor forky lightnings flashed from such a sullen sky. Red meteors ran across the ethereal space; Stars disappeared, and comets took their place. For this, the Emathian plains once more were strewed With Roman bodies, and just heaven thought good To fatten twice those fields with Roman blood. Then, after length of time, the labouring swains Who turn the turfs of those unhappy plains, Shall rusty piles from the ploughed furrows take, And over empty helmets pass the rake⁠— Amazed at antique titles on the stones, And mighty relics of gigantic bones.

Oh happy, if he knew his happy state, The swain, who, free from business and debate, Receives his easy food from nature’s hand, And just returns of cultivated land! No palace, with a lofty gate, he wants, To admit the tides of early visitants, With eager eyes devouring, as they pass, The breathing figures of Corinthian brass. No statues threaten, from high pedestals; No Persian arras hides his homely walls, With antic vests, which, through their shady fold, Betray the streaks of ill-dissembled gold: He boasts no wool, whose native white is dyed With purple poison of Assyrian pride; No costly drugs of Araby defile, With foreign scents, the sweetness of his oil: But easy quiet, a secure retreat, A harmless life that knows not how to cheat, With home-bred plenty, the rich owner bless, And rural pleasures crown his happiness. Unvexed with quarrels, undisturbed with noise, The country king his peaceful realm enjoys⁠— Cool grots, and living lakes, the flowery pride Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide, And shady groves that easy sleep invite, And after toilsome days, a sweet repose at night. Wild beasts of nature in his woods abound; And youth, of labour patient, plow the ground, Inured to hardship, and to homely fare. Nor venerable age is wanting there, In great examples to the youthful train; Nor are the gods adored with rites profane. From hence Astraea took her flight; and here The prints of her departing steps appear.

The soft seducer, with enticing looks, The bellowing rivals to the fight provokes.

A beauteous heifer in the woods is bred: The stooping warriors, aiming head to head, Engage their clashing horns: with dreadful sound The forest rattles, and the rocks rebound. They fence, they push, and, pushing, loudly roar: Their dewlaps and their sides are bathed in gore. Nor, when the war is over, is it peace; Nor will the vanquished bull his claim release; But, feeding in his breast his ancient fires, And cursing fate, from his proud foe retires. Driven from his native land to foreign grounds, He with a generous rage resents his wounds, His ignominious flight, the victor’s boast, And, more than both, the loves which unrevenged he lost. Often he turns his eyes, and, with a groan, Surveys the pleasing kingdoms, once his own: And therefore to repair his strength he tries, Hardening his limbs with painful exercise, And rough upon the flinty rock he lies. On prickly leaves and on sharp herbs he feeds, Then to the prelude of a war proceeds. His horns, yet sore, he tries against a tree, And meditates his absent enemy. He snuffs the wind; his heels the sand excite; But, when he stands collected in his might, He roars, and promises a more successful fight. Then, to redeem his honour at a blow, He moves his camp, to meet his careless foe. Not with more madness, rolling from afar, The spumy waves proclaim the watery war, And mounting upwards, with a mighty roar, March onwards, and insult the rocky shore.

A dire example of this truth appears, When, after such a length of rolling years, We see the naked Alps, and thin remains Of scattered cots, and yet unpeopled plains, Once filled with grazing flocks, the shepherds’ happy reigns. Here, from the vicious air, and sickly skies, A plague did on the dumb creation rise: During the autumnal heats the infection grew Tame cattle and the beasts of nature slew, Poisoning the standing lakes, and pools impure; Nor was the foodful grass in fields secure. Strange death! for, when the thirsty fire had drunk Their vital blood, and the dry nerves were shrunk, When the contracted limbs were cramped, e’en then A waterish humour swelled and oozed again, Converting into bane the kindly juice, Ordained by nature for a better use.

The victim ox, that was for altars prest, Trimmed with white ribbons, and with garlands drest, Sunk of himself, without the gods’ command, Preventing the slow sacrificer’s hand. Or, by the holy butcher if he fell, The inspected entrails could no fates foretell; Nor, laid on altars, did pure flames arise; But clouds of smouldering smoke forbade the sacrifice. Scarcely the knife was reddened with his gore, Or the black poison stained the sandy floor. The thriven calves in meads their food forsake, And render their sweet souls before the plenteous rack.