Georgics
Virgil
Vergil. The Poems of Vergil. Rhoades, James, translator. London: Oxford University Press, 1921.
- But if one's whole stock fail him at a stroke,
- Nor hath he whence to breed the race anew,
- 'Tis time the wondrous secret to disclose
- Taught by the swain of Arcady, even how
- The blood of slaughtered bullocks oft has borne
- Bees from corruption. I will trace me back
- To its prime source the story's tangled thread,
- And thence unravel. For where thy happy folk,
- Canopus, city of Pellaean fame,
- Dwell by the Nile's lagoon-like overflow,
- And high o'er furrows they have called their own
- Skim in their painted wherries; where, hard by,
- The quivered Persian presses, and that flood
- Which from the swart-skinned Aethiop bears him down,
- Swift-parted into sevenfold branching mouths
- With black mud fattens and makes Aegypt green,
- That whole domain its welfare's hope secure
- Rests on this art alone. And first is chosen
- A strait recess, cramped closer to this end,
- Which next with narrow roof of tiles atop
- 'Twixt prisoning walls they pinch, and add hereto
- From the four winds four slanting window-slits.
- Then seek they from the herd a steer, whose horns
- With two years' growth are curling, and stop fast,
- Plunge madly as he may, the panting mouth
- And nostrils twain, and done with blows to death,
- Batter his flesh to pulp i' the hide yet whole,
- And shut the doors, and leave him there to lie.
- But 'neath his ribs they scatter broken boughs,
- With thyme and fresh-pulled cassias: this is done
- When first the west winds bid the waters flow,
- Ere flush the meadows with new tints, and ere
- The twittering swallow buildeth from the beams.
- Meanwhile the juice within his softened bones
- Heats and ferments, and things of wondrous birth,
- Footless at first, anon with feet and wings,
- Swarm there and buzz, a marvel to behold;
- And more and more the fleeting breeze they take,
- Till, like a shower that pours from summer-clouds,
- Forth burst they, or like shafts from quivering string
- When Parthia's flying hosts provoke the fray.
- Say what was he, what God, that fashioned forth
- This art for us, O Muses? of man's skill
- Whence came the new adventure? From thy vale,
- Peneian Tempe, turning, bee-bereft,
- So runs the tale, by famine and disease,
- Mournful the shepherd Aristaeus stood
- Fast by the haunted river-head, and thus
- With many a plaint to her that bare him cried:
- “Mother, Cyrene, mother, who hast thy home
- Beneath this whirling flood, if he thou sayest,
- Apollo, lord of Thymbra, be my sire,
- Sprung from the Gods' high line, why barest thou me
- With fortune's ban for birthright? Where is now
- Thy love to me-ward banished from thy breast?
- O! wherefore didst thou bid me hope for heaven?
- Lo! even the crown of this poor mortal life,
- Which all my skilful care by field and fold,
- No art neglected, scarce had fashioned forth,
- Even this falls from me, yet thou call'st me son.
- Nay, then, arise! With thine own hands pluck up
- My fruit-plantations: on the homestead fling
- Pitiless fire; make havoc of my crops;
- Burn the young plants, and wield the stubborn axe
- Against my vines, if there hath taken the
- Such loathing of my greatness.”