Georgics
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- Now for the native gifts of various soils,
- What powers hath each, what hue, what natural bent
- For yielding increase. First your stubborn lands
- And churlish hill-sides, where are thorny fields
- Of meagre marl and gravel, these delight
- In long-lived olive-groves to Pallas dear.
- Take for a sign the plenteous growth hard by
- Of oleaster, and the fields strewn wide
- With woodland berries. But a soil that's rich,
- In moisture sweet exulting, and the plain
- That teems with grasses on its fruitful breast,
- Such as full oft in hollow mountain-dell
- We view beneath us—from the craggy heights
- Streams thither flow with fertilizing mud—
- A plain which southward rising feeds the fern
- By curved ploughs detested, this one day
- Shall yield thee store of vines full strong to gush
- In torrents of the wine-god; this shall be
- Fruitful of grapes and flowing juice like that
- We pour to heaven from bowls of gold, what time
- The sleek Etruscan at the altar blows
- His ivory pipe, and on the curved dish
- We lay the reeking entrails. If to rear
- Cattle delight thee rather, steers, or lambs,
- Or goats that kill the tender plants, then seek
- Full-fed Tarentum's glades and distant fields,
- Or such a plain as luckless Mantua lost
- Whose weedy water feeds the snow-white swan:
- There nor clear springs nor grass the flocks will fail,
- And all the day-long browsing of thy herds
- Shall the cool dews of one brief night repair.
- Land which the burrowing share shows dark and rich,
- With crumbling soil—for this we counterfeit
- In ploughing—for corn is goodliest; from no field
- More wains thou'lt see wend home with plodding steers;
- Or that from which the husbandman in spleen
- Has cleared the timber, and o'erthrown the copse
- That year on year lay idle, and from the roots
- Uptorn the immemorial haunt of birds;
- They banished from their nests have sought the skies;
- But the rude plain beneath the ploughshare's stroke
- Starts into sudden brightness. For indeed
- The starved hill-country gravel scarce serves the bees
- With lowly cassias and with rosemary;
- Rough tufa and chalk too, by black water-worms
- Gnawed through and through, proclaim no soils beside
- So rife with serpent-dainties, or that yield
- Such winding lairs to lurk in. That again,
- Which vapoury mist and flitting smoke exhales,
- Drinks moisture up and casts it forth at will,
- Which, ever in its own green grass arrayed,
- Mars not the metal with salt scurf of rust—
- That shall thine elms with merry vines enwreathe;
- That teems with olive; that shall thy tilth prove kind
- To cattle, and patient of the curved share.
- Such ploughs rich Capua, such the coast that skirts
- Thy ridge, Vesuvius, and the Clanian flood,
- Acerrae's desolation and her bane.
- How each to recognize now hear me tell.
- Dost ask if loose or passing firm it be—
- Since one for corn hath liking, one for wine,
- The firmer sort for Ceres, none too loose
- For thee, Lyaeus?—with scrutinizing eye
- First choose thy ground, and bid a pit be sunk
- Deep in the solid earth, then cast the mould
- All back again, and stamp the surface smooth.
- If it suffice not, loose will be the land,
- More meet for cattle and for kindly vines;
- But if, rebellious, to its proper bounds
- The soil returns not, but fills all the trench
- And overtops it, then the glebe is gross;
- Look for stiff ridges and reluctant clods,
- And with strong bullocks cleave the fallow crust.
- Salt ground again, and bitter, as 'tis called—
- Barren for fruits, by tilth untamable,
- Nor grape her kind, nor apples their good name
- Maintaining—will in this wise yield thee proof:
- Stout osier-baskets from the rafter-smoke,
- And strainers of the winepress pluck thee down;
- Hereinto let that evil land, with fresh
- Spring-water mixed, be trampled to the full;
- The moisture, mark you, will ooze all away,
- In big drops issuing through the osier-withes,
- But plainly will its taste the secret tell,
- And with a harsh twang ruefully distort
- The mouths of them that try it. Rich soil again
- We learn on this wise: tossed from hand to hand
- Yet cracks it never, but pitch-like, as we hold,
- Clings to the fingers. A land with moisture rife
- Breeds lustier herbage, and is more than meet
- Prolific. Ah I may never such for me
- O'er-fertile prove, or make too stout a show
- At the first earing! Heavy land or light
- The mute self-witness of its weight betrays.
- A glance will serve to warn thee which is black,
- Or what the hue of any. But hard it is
- To track the signs of that pernicious cold:
- Pines only, noxious yews, and ivies dark
- At times reveal its traces.