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 Waving with box, Narycian groves of pitch;Oh! blithe the sight of fields beholden not To rake or man's endeavour! the barren woods That crown the scalp of Caucasus, even these, Which furious blasts for ever rive and rend, Yield various wealth, pine-logs that serve for ships, Cedar and cypress for the homes of men;Hence, too, the farmers shave their wheel-spokes, hence Drums for their wains, and curved boat-keels fit;Willows bear twigs enow, the elm-tree leaves, Myrtle stout spear-shafts, war-tried cornel too;Yews into Ituraean bows are bent:
Nor do smooth lindens or lathe-polished box Shrink from man's shaping and keen-furrowing steel;Light alder floats upon the boiling flood Sped down the Padus, and bees house their swarms In rotten holm-oak's hollow bark and bole.
What of like praise can Bacchus' gifts afford?
Nay, Bacchus even to crime hath prompted, he The wine-infuriate Centaurs quelled with death, Rhoetus and Pholus, and with mighty bowl Hylaeus threatening high the Lapithae.
Oh! all too happy tillers of the soil, Could they but know their blessedness, for whom Far from the clash of arms all-equal earth Pours from the ground herself their easy fare!
What though no lofty palace portal-proud From all its chambers vomits forth a tide Of morning courtiers, nor agape they gaze On pillars with fair tortoise-shell inwrought, Gold-purfled robes, and bronze from Ephyre;Nor is the whiteness of their wool distained With drugs Assyrian, nor clear olive's use With cassia tainted; yet untroubled calm, A life that knows no falsehood, rich enow With various treasures, yet broad-acred ease, Grottoes and living lakes, yet Tempes cool, Lowing of kine, and sylvan slumbers soft, They lack not; lawns and wild beasts' haunts are there, A youth of labour patient, need-inured, Worship, and reverend sires: with them from earth Departing justice her last footprints left.
