Thus far the tillage of the fields and the stars of heaven: 
	now you, Bacchus, will I sing, and with you the forest 
	saplings, and the offspring of the slow-growing olive. 
	Hither Lenaean sire! Here all is full of your 
5	bounties; for you blossoms the field teeming with the harvest 
	of the vine, and the vintage foams in the brimming vats. 
	Come hither, Lenaean sire, strip off your buskins 
	and with me plunge your naked legs in the new must.
	
	Firstly, Nature has manifold ways for rearing trees. 
10	For some, under no man’s constraint, spring up 
	of their own free will, and far and wide claim the plains 
	and winding rivers; such as the limber osier and lithe broom, 
	the poplar, and the pale willow beds with silvery leafage. 
	But some spring from fallen seed, as tall chestnuts, 
15	and the mast tree, monarch of the woodland, that spreads 
	its shade for Jove, and the oaks, deemed by the Greeks oracular. 
	With others a dense undergrowth sprouts from the parent root, 
	as with cherries and elms; the laurel of Parnassus, too, 
	springs up, a tiny plant, beneath its mother’s mighty shade. 
20	These are the modes Nature first ordained; these give verdure 
	to every kind of forest trees and shrubs and sacred groves.
	
	Others there are which Experience has in her course discovered for herself. 
	One man tears away suckers from the mother’s tender frame, 
	and sets them in furrows; another buries in the ground stems, 
25	both as cross-cleft shafts and as sharp-pointed stakes. 
	Some trees await the arches of the bent layer, 
	and slips set while yet quick in their own soil; 
	others need no root, and the pruner fears not 
	to take the topmost spray and again entrust it to the earth. 
30	When the trunks are cleft--how wondrous the tale!--
	an olive root thrusts itself from the dry wood. 
	Often, too, we see one tree’s branches turn harmless 
	into another’s, the pear transformed bearing engrafted 
	apples, and stony cornels blushing on the plum.
	
35	Up, therefore, husbandmen, learn the culture proper to each 
	after its kind; your wild fruits tame by tillage, 
	and let not your soil lie idle. What joy to plant all Ismarus 
	with the vine, and clothe great Taburnus with the olive! 
	And you, Maecenas, my pride, my justest title to fame, 
40	come and traverse with me the toilsome course I have essayed, 
	and spread your sails to speed over an open sea. 
	Not mine the wish to embrace all the theme within my verse, 
	not though I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, 
	and a voice of iron! Draw night, and skirt the near shoreline--
45	the land is close at hand. Not here will I detain you with songs 
	of fancy, amid rambling paths and lengthy preludes.
	
	Trees that of free will lift themselves into realms of light 
	spring up unfruitful, but rejoicing in their strength, 
	for within the soil is native force. Yet even these, if one graft them, 
50	or transplant and commit to well-worked trenches, 
	will doff their wild spirit, and under constant tillage 
	will readily follow any lessons you would have them learn. 
	So, too, the sucker, which springs barren from the bottom 
	of the stem, would do likewise, if set out amid open fields: 
55	as it is, the mother tree’s branches and deep leafage overshadow it, 
	robbing it of fruit as it grows, and blasting it in the bearing. 
	Again, the tree which rears itself from chance-dropped seeds 
	rises slowly and will yield its shade to our children of later days; 
	its fruits, too, degenerate, forgetting their olden flavour, 
60	and the vine bears sorry clusters, for the birds to pillage.
	
	On all, be sure, must labour be spent; all must be 
	marshaled into trenches, and tamed with much trouble. 
	But olives answer best from truncheons, vines from layers, 
	Paphian myrtles from the solid stem. 
65	From suckers spring sturdy hazels, and the giant 
	ash, the shady tree that crowned Hercules, 
	and the acorns of the Chaonian sire. So, too, rises the lofty palm, 
	and the fir that will see the perils of the deep. 
	But the rough arbutus is grafted with a walnut shoot, 
70	and barren planes have oft borne hardy apple boughs; 
	the beech has grown white with the chestnut’s snowy bloom, 
	the ash with the pear’s; and swine have crunched acorns beneath the elm.
	
	Nor is the mode of grafting and of budding the same. 
	For where the buds push out from amid the bark, 
75	and burst their tender sheaths, a narrow slit is made 
	just in the knot; in this from an alien tree they insert 
	a bud, and teach it to grow in the sappy bark. 
	Or, again, knotless boles are cut open, and with wedges 
	a path is cleft deep into the core; then fruitful slips 
80	are let in, and in a little while, lo! a mighty tree 
	shoots up skyward with joyous boughs, 
	and marvels at its strange leafage and fruits not its own.
	
	Further, not single in kind are sturdy elms, 
	or the willow, or the lotus, or the cypresses of Ida, 
85	nor do rich olives grow to one mould--
	the orchad and radius, and the pausian with its bitter berry. 
	So, too, with apples and the gardens of Alcinous; nor are cuttings 
	the same for Crustumian and Syrian pears, and the heavy volema. 
	On our trees hangs not the same vintage 
90	as Lesbos gathers from Methymna’s boughs: 
	there are Thasian vines, there are the pale Mareotic--
	these suited for rich coils, those for lighter ones--
	the Psithian, too, better for raisin wine, and the subtle Lagean, 
	sure some day to trouble the feet and tie the tongue; 
95	the Purple and the Precian and you, Rhaetic--how can I do you 
	justice? Yet even so, seek not to rival Falernian cellars! 
	There are, too, Aminnean vines, soundest of wines, 
	to which the Tmolian and the royal Phanaean itself pay homage 
	and the lesser Argitis, which none may match, 
100	either in richness of stream or in lasting through many years. 
	Nor would I pass by you, vine of Rhodes, welcome to the gods and the 
	banquet’s second course, and you, Bumastus, with your swelling clusters. 
	But for the many kinds, or the names they bear, 
	there is no numbering--nor, indeed, is the numbering worth the pains. 
105	He who would have knowledge of this would likewise want to learn 
	how many grains of sand on the Libyan plain are stirred by the West Wind, 
	or when the East falls in unwonted fury on the ships, would want 
	to know how many billows of the Ionian sea roll shoreward.
	
	Nor yet can all soils bear all fruits. 
110	In rivers grow willows, in rank fens 
	alders, on rocky hills the barren ash. 
	The shores rejoice most in myrtle groves. Lastly, Bacchus loves 
	open hills, and the yew tree the cold of the North Wind. 
	See, too, earth’s farthest bounds, conquered by tillage--
115	the Arabs’ eastern homes, and the painted Gelonians: 
	trees have their allotted climes. India alone bears 
	black ebony; to the Sabaeans alone belongs the frankincense bough. 
	Why should I tell you of the balsams that drip from the fragrant wood, 
	or of the pods of the ever blooming acanthus? 
120	Why tell of the Ethiopian groves, all white with downy wool, 
	or how the Seres comb from leaves their fine fleeces? 
	Or, nearer the Ocean, of the jungles which India rears, 
	that nook at the world’s end where no arrows 
	can surmount the air at the treetop? 
125	And yet not slow is that race in handling the quiver. 
	Media bears the tart juices and lingering flavour of the health-giving 
	citron tree, which if cruel stepdames 
	have ever drugged the cups mixing herbs 
	and baleful spells, comes as help most potent, 
130	and from the limbs drives the deadly venom. 
	The tree itself is large, and in looks very like a bay; 
	and a bay it were, did it not fling abroad another scent. 
	In now winds fall its leaves; 
	its blossom clings most firmly; with it the Mede treats 
135	his mouth’s noisome breath, and curse the asthma of the old.
	
	But neither Media’s groves, land of wondrous wealth, 
	nor beauteous Ganges, nor Hermus, whose mud is gold, 
	may rival the glories of Italy--not Bactra nor India, 
	no, not all Araby, though its very sand be incense. 
140	Never was our country ploughed by fire-snorting bulls 
	for the sowing of the grisly dragon’s teeth; 
	nor have its fields bristled with the helms and serried lances of warriors. 
	But the land was filled with teeming crops and Bacchus’ 
	Massic juice; it is the home of the olive, the home of fattened flocks. 
145	Hence comes the war horse which proudly prances over the plain, 
	hence the milk-white herds of the Clitumnus, and the bull, noblest 
	of victims, which, bathed often in its sacred stream, 
	have escorted Roman triumphs to their shrines of the gods. 
	Here spring is perpetual, and summer extends to months other than her own; 
150	twice a year the cows calve, twice a year the trees serve us fruit. 
	Here are no ravening tigers or savage brood of lion; 
	no aconite deceives the wretch who picks it, 
	nor yet, sweeping huge coils along the ground, 
	does the scaly snake with his vast train wind himself into a spiral. 
155	Count, too, those many stately cities, monument to human toil, 
	and all the towns built by man’s hand on rocky crags 
	with rivers gliding beneath their immemorial walls. 
	Shall I tell of the sea that washes Italy’s shores above and that which breaks 
	on her coasts below? Or tell of her mighty lakes? Of you, Larius, the greatest, 
160	or you, Benacus, who swell with a sea’s surge and roar? 
	Shall I tell of her harbours, and the barrier thrown across the Lucrine, 
	and how Ocean clamours aloud in anger, 
	where the Julian waters echo afar as the sea is flung back, 
	and the Tyrrhenian tide pours into the channels of Avernus? 
165	This land has also streams of silver and mines of copper to show 
	in her veins, and gold flows profusely in her rivers. 
	She has mothered a vigorous breed of men, Marsians and the Sabine stock, 
	the Ligurian, inured to hardship, and the Volscian spearmen; 
	the Decii, the Marii, the great Camilli, 
170	the Scipios, hardy warriors, and you, greatest of all, Caesar, 
	who, already victorious in Asia’s farthest bounds, 
	now drive the craven Indian from our hills of Rome. 
	Hail, land of Saturn, mighty mother of crops, mighty mother 
	of men! For you I attempt a theme that claimed praise 
175	and skill in days of old; for you I dare to unseal the sacred springs 
	and through Roman towns to sing the song of Ascra.
	
	Now give we place to the genius of soils, the strength of each, 
	its hue, its native power for bearing. 
	First then, churlish ground and unkindly hills, 
180	where there is lean clay, and gravel in the thorny fields, 
	delight in Minerva’s grove of the long-lived olive. 
	A token of this is the oleaster, springing up freely 
	in the same space, and the ground strewn with its wild berries. 
	But a rich soil, which rejoices in sweet moisture, 
185	a level space thick with herbage and prolific in nutriment 
	(such as we often see in the hollow of a mountain valley, 
	for into it from the rocky heights pour the streams, bearing 
	with them fattening mud), land which rises to the south 
	and feeds the fern, that plague of the crooked plough--
190	this land will some day yield you the hardiest of vines, streaming 
	with the rich flood of Bacchus; this is fruitful in the grape, 
	and in the juice we offer from bowls of gold, 
	when the sleek Etruscan has blown his ivory horn beside the altar, 
	and on bellied platters we present the steaming meat of sacrifice.
	
195	But if your business is rather the keeping of herds and calves, 
	or breeding sheep, or goats that blight the plants, 
	then haste to the glades and distant meads of rich Tarentum, 
	or to such a plain as unhappy Mantua lost, 
	giving good to snowy swans with its grassy stream. 
200	There the flocks will lack nor limpid springs nor herbage, 
	and all that the herds will crop in the long days 
	the chilly dew will restore in one short night.
	
	Land that is black, and rich beneath the share’s pressure 
	and with a crumbly soil--for such a soil we try to rival with our ploughing--
205	is, in the main, best for corn; from no other land will you see 
	more wagons wending homeward behind slow bullocks, 
	or land from which the angry ploughman has carried off the timber, 
	leveling groves that have idled many a year, 
	and tearing up by their deepest roots the olden homes 
210	of the birds--these leave their nests and seek and the sky, 
	but forthwith the untried plain glistens under the driven ploughshare. 
	For as to the hungry gravel of a hilly country, it scarce 
	serves the bees with lowly spurge and rosemary; 
	and the rough tufa and the chalk that black water snakes 
215	have eaten out betoken that no other lands give serpents 
	food so sweet, or furnish such winding coverts. 
	But if a soil exhales thin mists and curling vapours, 
	if it drinks in moisture and throws it off again at will, 
	if it always clothes itself in the verdure of its own grass, 
220	and harms not the steel with scurf and salt rust, 
	that is the one to wreathe your elms in joyous vines, 
	the one to be rich in oil of olive, the one you will find, as you till, 
	to be indulgent to cattle and submissive to the crooked share. 
	Such is the soil rich Capua ploughs, and the coast near 
225	the Vesuvian ridge, and Clanius, unkindly to forlorn Acerrae.
	
	Now I will tell you how you may distinguish each. 
	If you shall ask whether a soil be light or closer than is the wont--
	for one is friendly to corn, the other to the vine; 
	the closer to Ceres, all the lightest to Lyaeus--
230	you must first look out a place and bid a pit be sunk 
	deep in the solid ground, then put all the earth 
	back again, and tread the earth level at the top. 
	If it fall short, this farm land will be light, and better suited 
	for the herd and gracious vine; but if it shows that it cannot return 
235	to its place, and if there is earth to spare when the pit is filled, 
	the soil is stiff: look for reluctant clods and stiffness 
	of ridge, and have strong oxen break your ground. 
	As for salty land, the kind called bitter 
	(unfruitful it is for the crops and mellows not in ploughing; 
240	it preserves not for the vine its lineage, or for apples their fame), 
	it will allow this test: pull down from the smoky roof 
	your close-woven wicker baskets and wine strainers: 
	in these let that sorry soil, mixed with fresh spring water, 
	be pressed in to the brim. You will see all the water 
245	trickle through the big drops pass between the osiers; 
	but the taste will tell its tale full plainly, and with its 
	bitter flavour will distort the testers’ soured mouths. 
	Again, richness of soil we learn in this way only: 
	never does it crumble when worked in the hands, 
250	but like pitch grows sticky in the fingers when held. 
	A most soil rears taller grass and is of itself unduly prolific. 
	Ah! Not mine be that over-fruitful soil, 
	and may it not show itself too strong when the ears are young! 
	A heavy soil betrays itself silently by its own weight; 
255	so dies a light one. It is easy for the eye to learn at once a black soil 
	and the hue of any kind. But to detect the villainous cold 
	is hard; only pitch pines or baleful yews 
	and black ivy sometimes reveal its traces.
	
	These points observed, remember first to bake the ground 
260	well, to cut up the huge knolls with trenches, 
	and to expose the upturned clods to the North wind, 
	long before you plant the vine’s gladsome stock. Fields of crumbing 
	soil are the best; to this the winds see, the chill frosts, 
	and the stout delver, who loosens and stirs the acres. 
265	But men whose watchful care nothing escapes 
	first seek out like plots--one where the crop may be nursed in infancy 
	for its supporting trees, and one to which it may be moved anon when planted out, 
	lest the nurslings should fail to recognize the mother suddenly changed. 
	Nay, the print on the bark of the trees the quarter of the sky each faced, 
270	so as to restore the position in which they stood, the same side 
	bearing the southern heat and the same back turned to 
	the north pole; so strong is habit in tender years.
	
	First inquire whether it be better to plant the vine on hills 
	or on the plain. If it is rich level ground you lay out, 
275	plant close; in close-planted soil not less fertile is the wine god. 
	But if it is a soil of rising mounds and sloping hills, 
	give the ranks room; yet none the less, when the trees are set, 
	let all the paths, with clear-cut line, square to a nicety. 
	As oft, in mighty warfare, when the legion deploys 
280	its companies in long array and the column halts on the open plain, 
	when the lines are drawn out, and far and wide all the land ripples 
	with the gleam of steel, not yet is the grim conflict joined, 
	but the war god wanders in doubt between the hosts; 
	so let all your vineyard be meted out in even and uniform paths, 
285	not merely that the view may fed an idle fancy, 
	but because only thus will the earth give equal strength to all, 
	and the boughs be able to reach forth into free air.
	
	Perchance you ask also what should be the trenches’ depth. 
	I should venture to entrust a vine even to a shallow furrow, 
290	but deeper and far within the earth is sunk the supporting tree, 
	above all the great oak, which strikes its roots down towards 
	the nether pit as far as it lifts its top to the airs of heaven. 
	Hence no winter storms, no blasts or rains, 
	uproot it; unmoved it abides, and many generations, many ages 
295	of men it outlives, letting them roll by while it endures. 
	Stout limbs, too, and arms it stretches far, this side 
	and that, itself in the centre upholding a mass of shade.
	
	Let not your vineyards slope towards the setting sun, 
	nor plant the hazel among the vines, nor lop 
300	the highest sprays, nor pluck cuttings from the treetop--
	so strong is their love of the earth--nor hurt young plants 
	with a blunted knife, nor engraft wild trunks of olive. 
	For oft from thoughtless shepherds falls a spark, 
	which lurking at first unseen under the rich bark, 
305	fastens on the trunk, and, gliding to the leaves aloft, 
	sends to heaven a mighty roar; then, running on, 
	reigns supreme among all the boughs and high treetops, 
	wrapping all the grove in fire, and belching skyward 
	black clouds of thick pitchy darkness; 
310	most of all, if a tempest from above has swooped down 
	upon the woods, and a favouring wind masses the flames. 
	When this befalls, the trees are without virtue in their stock, 
	and when cut down cannot revive or from the earth’s depths resume 
	their olden bloom: the luckless oleaster with bitter leaves alone survives.
	
315	And let no counselor seem so wise as to persuade you 
	to stir the stiff soil when the North Wind blows. 
	Then winter grips the land with frost, and when the plant 
	is set suffers it not to fasten its frozen root in the earth. 
	The best planting season for vines is when in blushing spring 
320	the white bird, the foe of long snakes, is come, 
	or close on autumn’s first cold, while the hot sun 
	does not as yet touch winter with his car, and summer now is waning. 
	Spring it is that clothes the glades and forests with leaves, 
	in spring the soil swells and carves the vital seed. 
325	Then does Heaven, sovereign father, descend 
	in fruitful showers into the womb of his joyful consort and, mightily 
	mingling with her mighty frame, gives life to every embryo within. 
	Then secluded thickets echo with melodious birdsong 
	and at the trysting hour the herds renew their loves; 
330	the bounteous earth prepares to give birth, and the meadows ungirdle 
	to the Zephyr’s balmy breeze; the tender moisture avails for all. 
	The grass safely dares to face the nascent suns, 
	nor does the vine tendril fear the South Wind’s rising 
	or showers launched from the skies by the blustering North, 
335	but puts forth buds and unfurls its every leaf. 
	Such days as these, I can imagine well, shone at the dawn 
	of the infant world and took no different course: 
	springtime it was, the whole wide world was keeping 
	spring, and the east winds spared their icy blasts: 
340	then the first cattle drank in the light, the earthborn 
	race of men reared its head from the stony plains, 
	and the woods were stocked with game, the firmament with stars. 
	Nor could the tender beings endure the world’s harshness, 
	did not between the seasons’ cold and heat come such repose, 
345	and earth receive the blessing of a clement sky.
	
	Furthermore, whatever cuttings you plant in your fields, 
	sprinkle them with rich dung, and forget not to cover them with deep soil; 
	or bury with them porous stone or rough shells; 
	for the water will glide between, the air’s searching breath 
350	will steal in, and the plants sown will take heart. And, ere now, 
	some have been known to overly them with stones and jars 
	of heavy weight, thus shielding them against pelting showers, 
	and against the time when the sultry Dog Star splits the fields that gape with thirst.
	
	When the sets are planted, it remains for you to break up the soil 
355	oft-times at the roots, and to swing the ponderous hoe, 
	or to ply the soil under the share’s pressure and turn 
	your toiling bullocks even between your vineyard rows; 
	then to shape smooth canes, shafts of peeled rods, 
	ashen stakes and stout forks, 
360	by whose aid the vines may learn to mount, scorn the wind, 
	and run from tier to tier amid the elm tops.
	
	And when their early youth has fresh leaves budding, 
	you must spare their weakness, and while the shoot, speeding through 
	the void with loosened reins, pushes joyously skyward, 
365	you must not yet attack the plants themselves with the knife’s edge, 
	but with bent fingers pluck the leaves and pick them here and there. 
	Later, when they have shot up and their stout stems have now clasped 
	the elms, then strip their locks and clip their arms--
	before they shrink from the knife--then at last set up 
370	an iron sway and check the flowing branches.
	
	You must also weave hedges, and keep out all cattle, 
	chiefly while the leafage is tender and knows naught of trials, 
	for besides unfeeling winters and the sun’s tyranny, 
	ever do wild buffaloes and pestering roes make sport of it; 
375	sheep and greedy heifers feed upon it. 
	No cold, stiff with hoar frost, no summer heat, 
	brooding heavily over parched crags, 
	has done it such harm as the flocks and the venom of their 
	sharp tooth, and the scar impressed on the deep-gnawed stem. 
380	For no other crime is it that a goat is lain to Bacchus 
	at every altar, and the olden plays enter on the stage; 
	for this the sons of Theseus set up prizes for wit in their 
	villages and at the crossways, and gaily danced 
	in the soft meadows on oiled goatskins. 
385	Even so Ausonia’s swains, a race sent from Troy, 
	disport with rude verses and laughter unrestrained, 
	and put on hideous masks of hollow cork, 
	and call on you, Bacchus, in joyous songs, and to you 
	hang waving amulets from the tall pine. 
390	Hence every vineyard ripens in generous increase; 
	fullness comes to hollow valleys and deep glades, 
	and every spot towards which the god has turned his comely face. 
	Duly, then, in our country’s songs we will chant for Bacchus 
	the praise he claims, bringing him cakes and dishes; 
395	the doomed he-goat, led by the horn, shall stand at the altar, 
	and the rich flesh we will roast on spits of hazel.
	
	There is, too, this other task of dressing the vines 
	whereon never is enough care taken; for thrice or four times 
	each year must all your soil be split open, and the clods 
400	broken unceasingly with hoe reversed, and all the grove 
	lightened of its foliage. The farmer’s toil returns, moving in a circle, 
	as the year rolls back upon itself over its own footsteps. 
	And already, whenever the vineyard has shed her autumn leafage, 
	and the North Wind has shaken their glory from the woods--
405	already then the keen farmer extends his care to the coming year, 
	and pursues the vine he had left, lopping it 
	with Saturn’s crooked knife and pruning it into shape. 
	Be the first to dig the ground, first to bear away and fire 
	the prunings, first to carry the poles under cover: 
410	be the last to reap. Twice the shade thickens on the vines; 
	twice weeds cover the vineyard with thronging briars. 
	Heavy is either toil: “Give praise to large estates, 
	farm a small one.” Further, rough shoots of broom 
	must be cut amid the woods, and river rushes on the banks, 
415	and the care of the wild willow bed keeps you at work. 
	Now the vines are bound, now the vineyard lays by the pruning knife, 
	now the last vine dresser sings of his finished rows: 
	still you have to worry the soil and stir the dust, 
	and fear Jove’s rains for your now ripened grapes.
	
420	Olives, on the other hand, need no tending; they look 
	not for the crooked knife or gripping mattock, 
	when once they have laid hold of the fields and braved the breeze. 
	Earth of herself, when opened with the hoe’s curved fang, yields moisture 
	enough for the plants, and teeming fruits, when opened by the plough. 
425	After this mode nurture the plump olive, favoured of Peace.
	
	Fruit trees, too, so soon as they feel their stems firm, 
	and come to their strength, swiftly push forth skyward 
	with inborn force, needing no help from us. 
	No less, meanwhile, does every wood grow heavy with fruit, 
430	and the birds’ wild haunts blush with crimson berries. 
	Cattle browse on the cytisus, the high wood yields pine brands, 
	the fires of night are fed and pour forth light. 
	And can men be slow to plan and bestow care? 
	Why need I pursue greater themes? The willows and lowly broom--
435	they either yield leafage for he sheep or shade for the shepherd, 
	a fence for the crops and food for honey. 
	And what joy it is to gaze on Cytorus waving with boxwood, 
	and on groves of Narycian pitch! What joy to view fields 
	that owe no dept to the harrow, none to the care of man! 
440	Even the barren woods on Caucasian peaks, 
	which angry eastern gales ever toss and tear, 
	yield products, each after its kind, yield useful timber, 
	pines for ships, cedars and cypresses for houses. 
	From these the farmers turn spokes for wheels, 
445	or drums for their wains; from these they lay broad keels for boats. 
	The willow’s wealth is in its osiers, the elm’s in its leaves, 
	but the myrtle and cornel, that weapon of war, 
	abound in stout spear shafts; yews are bent into Ituraean bows. 
	So, too, smooth lindens and the box, polished by the lathe, 
450	take shape and are hollowed by the sharp steel. 
	So, too, the light alder, launched upon the Po, swims 
	the raging stream; so, too, the bees hive their swarms 
	in the hollow cork-trees, and the heart of a rotting ilex. 
	What boon of equal note have the gifts of Bacchus yielded? 
455	Bacchus has even given occasion for offence. It was he 
	who quelled in death the maddened Centaurs, Rhoetus, and Pholus, 
	and Hylaeus, as he aimed his massive flagon at the Lapiths.
	
	O farmers, happy beyond measure, could they but know 
	their blessings! For them, far from the clash of arms, 
460	most righteous Earth, unbidden, pours forth from her soil an easy sustenance. 
	If no stately mansion with proud portals disgorges from its halls 
	at dawn a flood of those who have come to greet its lord, 
	if they never gaze at doors inlaid with lovely tortoiseshell 
	or at draperies tricked with gold or at bronzes of Ephyra, 
465	if their wool’s whiteness is not stained with Assyrian dyes 
	or the service of their clear oil is not spoiled with cassia: 
	yet they have sleep free from anxiety, a life that is innocent of guile 
	and rich with untold treasures. The peace of broad domains, 
	caverns, and natural lakes, and cool vales, 
470	the lowing of oxen, and soft slumbers beneath the trees--
	all are theirs. They have woodland glades and the haunts of game; 
	a youth hardened to toil and inured to scanty fare; 
	worship of gods and reverence for age; among them, 
	as she departed from the earth, Justice left the last imprint of her feet.
	
475	But as for me--first may the Muses, sweet beyond compare, 
	whose holy emblems, under the spell of mighty love, I bear, 
	take me to themselves, and show me heaven’s pathways, 
	the stars, the sun’s many eclipses, the moon’s many labours; 
	whence come tremblings of the earth, the force to make deep seas swell 
480	and burst their barriers, then sink back upon themselves; 
	why winter suns hasten so fast to dip in Ocean, 
	or what delays clog the laggard nights. 
	But if the chill blood about my heart bar me 
	from reaching those realms of nature, let my delight 
485	be the country, and the running streams amid the dells--
	may I love the waters and the woods, though I be unknown to fame. 
	O for those plains, and Spercheus, and Taygetus, where Spartan girls 
	hold Bacchic rites! O for one to set me in the cool glens of Haemus, 
	and shield me under the branches’ giant shade! 
	
490	Blessed is he who has succeeded in learning the laws 
	of nature’s working, has cast beneath his feet all fear 
	and fate’s implacable decree, and the howl of insatiable Death. 
	But happy, too, is he who knows the rural gods, 
	Pan and aged Silvanus and the sisterhood of the Nymphs. 
495	Him no honours the people give can move, no purple worn 
	by despots, no strife which leads brother to betray brother; 
	untroubled is he by Dacian incursion swooping down from a Danube 
	leagued in war, untroubled by Rome’s policies spelling doom to kingdoms; 
	if he has not felt pity for the poor, he has never envied the rich. 
500	He plucks the fruits which his boughs, which his willing fields, 
	have freely borne; nor has he beheld the iron rigours 
	of the law, the Forum’s madness, or the public archives. 
	Other brave with oars seas unknown, dash upon the sword, 
	or press their way into courts and the chambers of kings. 
505	One wreaks ruin on a city and its wretched homes, 
	and all to drink from a jeweled cup and sleep on Tyrian purple; 
	another hoards wealth and gloats over buried gold; 
	one stares in admiration at the rostra; another, open-mouthed, is carried away 
	by the applause of high and low which rolls again and again along the benches. 
510	They steep themselves in their brothers’ blood and glory in it; 
	they barter their sweet homes and hearths for exile 
	and seek a country that lies beneath an alien sun.
	
	Meanwhile the husbandman has been cleaving the soil with crooked plough; 
	hence comes his year’s work, hence comes sustenance for his country 
515	and his little grandsons, hence for his herds of cows and faithful bullocks. 
	No respite is there, but the season teems either with fruits, 
	or with increase of the herds, or with the sheaves of Ceres’ corn, 
	loading the furrows with its yield and bursting the barns. 
	Winter is come; Sicyon’s berry is bruised in the mill, 
520	the swine come home gladdened with acorns, the forest yield arbutes, 
	or autumn sheds its varied produce, and high 
	on the sunny rocks basks the mellow vintage. 
	Meanwhile his dear children hang upon his kisses; 
	his unstained home guards its purity; the cows droop 
525	milk-laden udders, and on the glad sward, 
	horn to horn, the fat kids wrestle. 
	The master himself keeps holiday, and stretched on the grass, 
	with a fire in the midsts and his comrades wreathing the bowl, 
	offers libation and calls upon you, god of the wine press, 
530	and for the keepers of the flock sets up a mark on an elm for the contest 
	of the winged javelin, or they bare their hardy limbs for the rustic wrestling bout.
	
	Such a life the old Sabines once lived, 
	such Remus and his brother. Thus, surely, Etruria waxed strong; 
	and Rome has thus become the fairest thing on earth, 
535	and with a single city’s wall enclosed her seven hills. 
	Nay, before the Cretan king held scepter, 
	and before a godless race banqueted on slaughtered bullocks, 
	such was the life golden Saturn lived on earth, 
	while yet none had heard the clarion blare, 
540	none the sword blades ring, as they were laid on the stubborn anvil.
	
	But in our course we have traversed a mighty plain, 
	and now it is time to unyoke the necks of our smoking steeds.