Georgics
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- 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,
- Now duck their head beneath the wave, now run
- Into the billows, for sheer idle joy
- Of their mad bathing-revel. Then the crow
- With full voice, good-for-naught, inviting rain,
- Stalks on the dry sand mateless and alone.
- Nor e'en the maids, that card their nightly task,
- Know not the storm-sign, when in blazing crock
- They see the lamp-oil sputtering with a growth
- Of mouldy snuff-clots.