Some steep their seed, and some in caldrons boil, With vig'rous nitre and with lees of oil, O'er gentle fires, th' exub'rant juice to drain, And swell the flatt'ring husks with fruitful grain. Yet, the success is not for years assur'd, Though chosen is the seed, and fully cur'd, Unless the peasant, with his annual pain, Renews his choice, and culls the largest grain. Thus all below, whether by Nature's curse, Or Fate's decree, degen'rate still to worse. So the boat's brawny crew the current stem, And, slow advancing, struggle with the stream: But, if they slack their hands, or cease to strive, Then down the flood with headlong haste they drive. Nor must the ploughman less observe the skies, When the Kids, Dragon, and Arcturus rise, 'Then sailors homeward bent, who cut their way Thro' Helle's stormy straits, and oyster-breeding sea. But, when Astrea's balance, hung on high, Betwixt the nights and days divides the sky, Then yoke your oxen, sow your winter grain, Till cold December comes with driving rain. Linseed and fruitful poppy bury warm, In a dry season, and prevent the storm. Sow beans and clover in a rotten soil, And millet rising from your annual toil,
When with his golden horns, in full career
The bull beats down the barriers of the year
And Argo and the Dog forsake the northern sphere.
But, if your care to wheat alone extend
Let Maia with her sisters first descend.
And the bright Gnossian diadem downward bend,
Before you trust in earth your future hope;
Or else expect a listless lazy crop.
Some swains have sown before; but most have found
A husky harvest from the grudging ground.
Vile vetches would you sow, or lentils lean,
The growth of Egypt, or the kidney bean,
Begin when the slow Wagoner descends;
Nor cease your sowing till midwinter ends.
For this, through twelve bright signs Apollo guides 320* The year, and earth in sev'ral climes divides. Five girdles bind the skies: the torrid zone Glows with the passing and repassing sun: Far on the right and left, th' extremes of heav'n To frosts and snows and bitter blasts are given: Betwixt the midst and these, the gods assign'd Two habitable seats for human kind, And 'cross their limits, cut a sloping way, Which the twelve signs in beauteous order sway. Two poles turn round the globe; one seen to rise O'er Scythian hills, and one in Libyan skies; The first sublime in heav'n, the last is whirl'd Below the regions of the nether world, Around our pole the spiry Dragon glides, And like a winding stream, the Bears dividesThe less and greater, who by Fate's decree Abhor to dive beneath the northern sea. There, as they say, perpetual night is found In silence brooding on th' unhappy ground: Or, when Aurora leaves our northern sphere, She lights the downward heav'n, and rises there; And, when on us she breathes the living light, Red Vesper kindles there the tapers of the night. From hence uncertain seasons we may know: And when to reap the grain, and when to sow; Or when to fell the furzes: when 'tis meet To spread the flying canvass for the fleet. Observe what stars arise or disappear; And the four quarters of the rolling year. But, when cold weather and continu'd rain The lab'ring husband in his house restrain, Let him forecast his work with timely care: Which else is huddled, when the skies are fair: Then let him mark the sheep, or whet the shining share,
Or hollow trees for boats, or number o'er
His sacks, or measure his increasing store,
Or sharpen stakes, or head the forks, or twine
The sallow twigs to tie the straggling vine;
Or wicker baskets weave, or air the corn,
Or grinded grain betwixt two marbles turn.
No laws, divine or human, can restrain,
From necessary works the lab'ring swain.
E'en holy days and feasts permission yield
To float the meadows, or to fence the field,
To fire the brambles, snare the birds, and steep
In wholesome waterfalls the wooly sheep.
And oft the drudging ass is driven, with toil,
To neighb'ring towns with apples and with oil;
Returning, late and laden, home with gain
Of barter'd pitch, and handmills for the grain.
The lucky days, in each revolving moon,
For labour choose: the fifth be sure to shun;
That gave the Furies and pale Pluto birth,
And arm'd against the skies, the sons of earth.
With mountains pil'd on mountains, thrice they strove
To scale the steepy battlements of Jove;
And thrice his lightning and red thunder play'd,
And their demolish'd work in ruin laid.
The sev'nth is, next the tenth, the best to join
Young oxen to the yoke, and plant the vine.
Then, weavers, stretch your stays upon the weft.
The ninth is good for travel, bad for theft.
Some works in dead of night are better done,
Or when the morning dew prevents the sun.
Parch'd meads and stubble mow by Phoebe's light, 385
Which both require the coolness of the night;
For, moisture then abounds, and pearly rains
Descend in silence to refresh the plains.
The wife and husband equally conspire
To work by night, and rake the winter fire:
He sharpens torches in the glimm❜ring room;
She shoots the flying shuttle through the loom,
Or boils in kettles must of wine, and skims,
With leaves, the dregs that overflow the brims:
And, till the watchful cock awakes the day,
She sings to drive the tedious hours away.
But, in warm weather, when the skies are clear,
By daylight reap the product of the year;
And in the sun your golden grain display,
And thrash it out and winnow it by day.
Plough naked, swain, and naked sow the land;
For lazy winter numbs the lab'ring hand.
In genial winter, swains enjoy their store,
Forget their hardships, and recruit for more.
The farmer to full bowls invites his friends,
And, what he got with pains, with pleasure spends.
So sailors, when escap'd from stormy seas,
First crown their vessels, then indulge their ease.
Yet that's the proper time to thrash the wood
For mast of oak, your father's homely food;
To rather laurel-berries, and the spoil
Of bloody myrtles, and to press your oil:
For stalling cranes to set the guneful snare;
Tinclose the stags in toils, and hunt the hare;
Vith Palearic slings, or Gnossian bow,
To persecute from far the flying doe,
Then, when the feecy skies new clothe the wood,
And cakes of rustling ice come rolling down the flood.
Now sing we stormy stars, when autumn weighs
The year, and adds to nights, and shortens days,
And suns declining shine with feeble rays:
What cares must then attend the toiling swain;
Or when the low`ring spring, with lavish rain,
Beats down the slender stem and bearded grain,
While yet the head is green. or, lightly swell'd
With milky moisture, overlooks the field.
Flen when the farmer, now secure of fear,
Fends in the swains to spoil the finish'd year,
Fen while the reaper fills his greedy hands,
And binds the golden sheaves in brittle bands,
Oft have I seen a sudden storm arise,
From all the warring winds that sweep the skies:
The heavy harvest from the root is torn,
And whirl'd aloft the lighter stubble borne:
With such a force the flying rack is driv'n.
And such a winter wears the face of heav'n.
And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain,
Suck'd by the spongy clouds from off the main:
The lofty skies, at once come pouring down,
The promis'd crop, and golden labours drown.
The dikes are fill'd; and, with a roaring sound,
The rising rivers float the nether ground;
And rocks the bellowing voice of boiling seas rebound. The father of the gods his glory shrouds,
Involv'd in tempests, and a night of clouds;
And, from the middle darkness flashing out,
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about.
Earth feels the motions of her angry god;
Her entrails tremble, and her mountains nod;
And flying beasts in forests seek abode:
Deep horror seizes ev'ry human breast;
Their pride is humbled, and their fear confess'd,
While he from high his rolling thunder throws,
And fires the mountains with repeated blows:
The rocks are from their old foundations rent;
The winds redouble, and the rains augment:
The waves on heaps are dash'd against the shore;
And now the woods, and now the billows, roar.
In fear of this, observe the starry signs,
Where Saturn houses, and where Hermes joins.
But first to heav'n thy due devotions pay,
And annual gifts on Čeres' altars lay.
Waen winter's rage abates, when cheerful hours
Awake the spring, the spring awakes the flow'rs,
On the green turf thy careless limbs display,
And celebrate the mighty Mother's day:
For then the hills with pleasing shades are crown'd,
And sleeps are sweeter on the silken ground:
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