Book I

What makes the crops joyous, beneath what star, Maecenas, it is well to turn the soil, and wed vines to elms, what tending the kine need, what care the herd in breeding, what skill the thrifty bees — hence shall I begin my song. O ye most radiant lights of the firmament, that guide through heaven the gliding year, O Liber and bounteous Ceres, if by your grace Earth changed Chaonia's acorn for the rich corn-ear, and blended draughts of Achelous with the new-found grapes, and ye, O Fauns, the rustics' ever-present gods (come trip it, Fauns, and Dryad maids withal!), 'tis of your bounties I sing. And thou, O Neptune, for whom Earth, smitten by thy mighty trident, first sent forth the neighing steed; thou, too, O spirit of the groves, for whom thrice an hundred snowy steers crop Cea's rich thickets; thyself, too, O Pan, guardian of the sheep, leaving thy native woods and glades of Lycaeus, as thou lovest thine own Maenalus, come of thy grace, O Tegean lord! Come thou, O Minerva, inventress of the olive; thou, too, O youth, who didst disclose the crooked plough; and thou, O Silvanus, with a young uprooted cypress in thy hand; and ye, O gods and goddesses all, whose love guards our fields — both ye who nurse the young fruits, springing up unsown, and ye who on the seedlings send down from heaven plenteous rain!

Yea, and thou, O Caesar, whom we know not what company of the gods shall claim ere long; whether thou choose to watch over cities and care for our lands, that so the mighty world may receive thee as the giver of increase and lord of the seasons, wreathing thy brows with thy mother's myrtle; whether thou come as god of the boundless sea and sailors worship thy deity alone, while farthest Thule owns thy lordship and Tethys with the dower of all her waves buys thee to wed her daughter; or whether thou add thyself as a new star to the lingering months, where, between the Virgin and the grasping Claws, a space is opening (lo! for thee even now the blazing Scorpion draws in his arms, and has left more than a due share of the heaven!) — whate'er thou art to be (for Tartarus hopes not for thee as king, and may such monstrous lust of empire ne'er seize thee, albeit Greece is enchanted by the Elysian fields, and Proserpine reclaimed cares not to follow her mother), do thou grant me a smooth course, give assent to my bold emprise, and pitying with me the rustics who know not their way, enter on thy worship, and learn even now to hearken to our prayers!

In the dawning spring, when icy streams trickle from snowy mountains, and the crumbling clod breaks at the Zephyr's touch, even then would I have my bull groan over the deep-driven plough, and the share glisten when rubbed by the furrow. That field only answers the covetous farmer's prayer, which twice has felt the sun and twice the frost; from it boundless harvests burst the granaries. Yet ere our iron cleaves an unknown plain, be it first our care to learn the winds and the wavering moods of the sky, the wonted tillage and nature of the ground, what each clime yields and what each disowns. Here corn, there grapes spring more luxuriantly; elsewhere young trees shoot up, and grasses unbidden. See you not, how Tmolus sends us saffron fragrance, India her ivory, the soft Sabaeans their frankincense: but the naked Chalybes give us iron, Pontus the strong-smelling beaver's oil, and Epirus the Olympian victories of her mares. From the first, Nature laid these laws and eternal covenants on certain lands, even from the day when Deucalion threw stones into the empty world, whence sprang men, a stony race. Come then, and where the earth's soil is rich, let your stout oxen upturn it straightway, in the year's first months, and let the clods lie for dusty summer to bake with her ripening suns; but should the land not be fruitful, it will suffice, on the eve of Arcturus' rising, to raise it lightly with shallow furrow — in the one case, that weeds may not choke the gladsome corn; in the other, that the scant moisture may not desert the barren sand.

In alternate seasons you will also let your fields lie fallow after reaping, and the plain idly stiffen with scurf; or, beneath another star, sow yellow corn in lands whence you have first carried off the pulse that rejoices in its quivering pods, or the fruits of the slender vetch, or the brittle stalks and rattling tangle of the bitter lupine. For a crop of flax parches the ground; oats parch it, and poppies, steeped in Lethe's slumber. Yet by changing crops the toil is light: only be not ashamed to feed fat the dried-out soil with rich dung, and to scatter grimy ashes over the exhausted fields. Thus also, with change of crop, the land finds rest, and meanwhile not thankless is the unploughed earth. Often, too, it has been useful to fire barren fields, and burn the light stubble in crackling flames; whether it be that the earth derives thence hidden strength and rich nutriment, or that in the flame every taint is baked out and the useless moisture sweats from it, or that that heat opens fresh paths and loosens hidden pores, by which the sap may reach the tender blades, or that it rather hardens the soil and narrows the gaping veins, that so the searching showers may not harm, or the blazing sun's fierce tyranny wither it, or the North-wind's piercing cold.

Yea, and much service does he do the land who with the mattock breaks up the sluggish clods, and drags over it wicker hurdles; nor is it for naught that golden Ceres views him from high Olympus. Much service, too, does he who turns his plough and again breaks crosswise through the ridges which he raised when first he cut the plain, ever at his post to discipline the ground, and give his orders to the fields. For moist summers and sunny winters, pray, ye farmers! With winter's dust most gladsome is the corn, gladsome is the field: under no tillage does Mysia so glory, and then even Gargarus marvels at his own harvests. Need I tell of him who flings the seed, then, hoe in hand, closes with the soil, and lays low the hillocks of barren sand? next brings to his crops the rills of the stream he guides, and when the scorched land swelters, the green blades dying, lo! from the brow of the hill-side channel decoys the water? This, as it falls, wakes a hoarse murmur amid the smooth stones, and with its gushing streams slakes the thirsty fields. Need I tell of him who, lest the stalk droop with heavy ears, grazes down his luxuriant crop in the young blade, soon as the growing corn is even with the furrow's top? or of him who draws off a marsh's gathered moisture with soaking sand — chiefly when, in changeful months, a river at the full o'erflows, and far and wide covers all with muddy coat, making the hollow ditches steam with warm vapour?

Nor yet, though toiling men and oxen have thus wrought in oft turning the land, does the rascally goose do no mischief, or the Strymonian cranes, or the bitter-fibred succory, nor is the shade of trees harmless. The great Father himself has willed that the path of husbandry should not be smooth, and he first made art awake the fields, sharpening men's wits by care, nor letting his realm slumber in heavy lethargy. Before Jove's day no tillers subdued the land. Even to mark the field or divide it with bounds was unlawful. Men made gain for the common store, and Earth yielded all, of herself, more freely, when none begged for her gifts. 'Twas he that in black serpents put their deadly venom, bade the wolves plunder and the ocean swell; shook honey from the leaves, hid fire from view, and stopped the wine that ran everywhere in streams, so that practice, by taking thought, might little by little hammer out divers arts, might seek the corn-blade in furrows, and strike forth from veins of flint the hidden fire. Then first did rivers feel the hollowed alder; then the sailor numbered the stars and called them by name, Pleiades, Hyades, and Arctos, Lycaon's gleaming offspring. Then men found how to snare game in toils, to cheat with bird-lime, and to circle great glades with hounds. And now one lashes a broad stream with casting-net, seeking the depths, and another through the sea trails his dripping drag-net. Then came iron's stiffness and the shrill saw-blade — for early man cleft the splitting wood with wedges; then came divers arts. Toil conquered the world, unrelenting toil, and want that pinches when life is hard.

Ceres was the first to teach men to turn the earth with iron, when the acorns and arbutes of the sacred wood began to fail, and Dodona denied men food. Soon, too, on the corn fell trouble, the baneful mildew feeding on the stems, and the lazy thistle bristling in the fields; the crops die, and instead springs up a prickly growth, burs and caltrops, and amid the smiling corn the luckless darnel and barren oats hold sway. Therefore, unless your hoe, time and again, assail the weeds, your voice affright the birds, your knife check the shade of the darkened land, and your vows invoke the rain, vainly, alas! will you eye your neighbour's big store, and in the woods shake the oak to solace hunger.

I must tell, too, of the hardy rustics' weapons, without which the crops could neither be sown nor raised. First the share and the curved plough's heavy frame, the slow-rolling wains of the Mother of Eleusis, sledges and drags, and hoes of cruel weight; further, the common wicker ware of Celeus, arbute hurdles and the mystic fan of Iacchus. All of these you will remember to provide and store away long beforehand, if the glory the divine country gives is to be yours in worthy measure. From the first, even in the woods, an elm, bent by main force, is trained for the stock, and receives the form of the crooked plough. To the stem of this is fitted a pole, eight feet in length, with two mould-boards, and a share-beam with double back. A light linden, too, is felled beforehand for the yoke, and a tall beech for the handle, to turn the car below from the rear; and the wood is hung above the hearth for the smoke to season.

I can repeat for you many olden maxims, unless you shrink back and are loath to learn such trivial cares. And chiefly, the threshing floor must be levelled with a heavy roller, kneaded with the hand, and made solid with binding clay, lest weeds spring up, or, crumbling into dust, it gape open, and then divers plagues make mock of you. Often under the ground the tiny mouse sets up a home and builds his storehouses, or sightless moles dig out chambers; in holes may be found the toad, and all the countless pests born of the earth; or the weevil ravages a huge heap of grain, or the ant, anxious for a destitute old age.

Mark, too, when in the woods the almond clothes herself richly in blossom and bends her fragrant boughs: if the fruit prevails, the corn crops will keep pace with it, and a great threshing come with a great heat; but if the shade is abundant in the fullness of leafage, in vain shall your floor thresh stalks, rich only in chaff. Many a sower have I seen treat his seeds, drenching them first with nitre and black oil-lees, that the deceitful pods might yield larger produce, and the grains be sodden quickly, however small the fire. I have seen seeds, though picked long and tested with much pains, yet degenerate, if human toil, year after year, culled not the largest by hand. Thus by law of fate all things speed towards the worst, and slipping away fall back; even as if one, whose oars can scarce force his skiff against the stream, should by chance slacken his arms, and lo! headlong down the current the channel sweeps it away.

Furthermore, we must watch the star of Arcturus, the days of the Kids, and the gleaming Snake, even as they do who, sailing homeward over windswept seas, brave the Pontus and the jaws of oyster-breeding Abydus. When the Balance makes the hours of daytime and sleep equal, and now parts the world in twain, half in light and half in shade, then, my men, work your oxen, sow barley in your fields, as late as the eve of winter's rains, when work must cease. Then, too, is the time to hide in the ground your crop of flax and the poppy of Ceres; and high time is it to bend to the plough, while the dry soil will let you and the clouds are still aloft. Spring is the sowing-time for beans; then, too, the crumbling furrows welcome thee. Median clover, and the millet claims our yearly care, when the snow-white Bull with gilded horns ushers in the year, and the Dog sets, retiring before his confronting star. But if for harvest of wheat and for hardy spelt you ply the ground, and if grain alone is your aim, first let the daughters of Atlas pass from your sight in the morn, and let the Cretan star of the blazing Crown withdraw ere you commit to the furrows the seeds due, or hasten to trust the year's hope to a reluctant soil. Many have begun ere Maia's setting, but the looked-for crop has mocked them with empty ears. Yet if you choose to sow the vetch or homely kidney-bean, and scorn not the care of Egyptian lentil, setting Bootes will send you no doubtful signs. Begin, and carry on your sowing to midwinter's frosts.

To this end the golden Sun rules his circuit, portioned out in fixed divisions, through the world's twelve constellations. Five zones comprise the heavens; whereof one is ever glowing with the flashing sun, ever scorched by his flames. Round this, at the world's ends, two stretch darkling to right and left, set fast in ice and black storms. Between these and the middle zone, two by grace of the gods have been vouchsafed to feeble mortals; and a path is cut between the two, wherein the slanting array of the Signs may turn. As our globe rises steep to Scythia and the Riphaean crags, so it slopes downward to Libya's southland. One pole is ever high above us, while the other, beneath our feet, is seen of black Styx and the shades infernal. Here, with his tortuous coils, the mighty Snake glides forth, river-like, about and between the two Bears — the Bears that shrink from the plunge 'neath Ocean's plain. There, men say, is either the silence of lifeless night, and gloom ever thickening beneath night's pall; or else Dawn returns from us and brings them back the day, and when on us the rising Sun first breathes with panting steeds, there glowing Vesper is kindling his evening rays. Hence, though the sky be fitful, we can foretell the weather's changes, hence the harvest-tide and sowing-time; when it is meet to lash with oars the sea's faithless calm, when to launch our well-rigged fleet, or in the woods to fell the pine in season. Not in vain do we watch the signs, as they rise and set, and the year, uniform in its four several seasons.

Whenever a cold shower keeps the farmer indoors, he can prepare at leisure much that ere long in clear weather must needs be hurried. The ploughman hammers out the hard tooth of the blunted share, scoops troughs from trees, or sets a brand upon his flocks and labels upon his corn-heaps. Others sharpen stakes and two-pronged forks, or make bands of Ame-rian willows for the limber vine. Now let the pliant basket be woven of briar twigs, now roast corn by the fire, now grind it on the stone. Nay, even on holy days, the laws of God and man permit you to do certain tasks. No scruples ever forbade us to guide down the water-rills, to defend a crop with a hedge, to set snares for birds, to fire brambles, or to plunge bleating flocks into the health-giving stream. Oft, too, the driver loads his slow donkey's sides with oil or cheap fruits, and as he comes back from town brings with him an indented millstone or a mass of black pitch.

The Moon herself has ordained various days in various grades as lucky for work. Shun the fifth; then pale Orcus and the Furies were born: then in monstrous labour Earth bore Coeus, and Iapetus, and fierce Typhoeus, and the brethren who were banded to break down Heaven. Thrice did they essay, forsooth, to pile Ossa on Pelion, and over Ossa to roll leafy Olympus; thrice, with his bolt, the Father dashed apart their up-piled mountains. The seventeenth is lucky for planting the vine, for yoking and breaking in oxen, and for adding the leashes to the warp. The ninth is a friend to the runaway, a foe to the thief.

Yea, and many things make better progress in the cool of night, or when at early sunrise the day-star bedews the earth. At night the light stubble is best shorn, at night the thirsty meadows; at night the softening moisture fails not. One I know spends wakeful hours by the late blaze of a winter-fire, and with sharp knife points torches; his wife the while solaces with song her long toil, runs the shrill shuttle through the web, or on the fire boils down the sweet juice of must, and skims with leaves the wave of the bubbling cauldron. But Ceres' golden grain is cut down in noonday heat, and in noonday heat the floor threshes the parched ears. Strip to plough, strip to sow; winter is the farmer's lazy time. In cold weather farmers chiefly enjoy their gains, and feast together in merry companies. Winter's cheer calls them, and loosens the weight of care — even as when laden keels have at last reached port and the merry sailors have crowned the poops with garlands. Still, then is the time to strip the acorns and laurel-berries, the olive and blood-red myrtle; the time to set snares for cranes and nets for the stag, and to chase the long-eared hares; the time to smite the does, as you whirl the hempen thongs of a Balearic sling — when the snow lies deep, when the rivers roll down the ice.

Why need I tell of autumn's changes and stars, and for what our workers must watch, as the day now grows shorter and summer softer, or when spring pours down in showers, as the bearded harvest now bristles in the fields, and the corn on its green stem swells with milk? Often, as the farmer was bringing the reaper into his yellow fields and was now stripping the brittle-stalked barley, my own eyes have seen all the winds clash in battle, tearing up the heavy crop far and wide from its deepest roots and tossing it on high; then with its black whirlwind the storm would sweep off the light stalk and flying stubble. Often, too, there appears in the sky a mighty column of waters, and clouds mustered from on high roll up a murky tempest of black showers: down falls the lofty heaven, and with its deluge of rain washes away the gladsome crops and the labours of oxen. The dykes fill, the deep-channelled rivers swell and roar, and the sea steams in its heaving friths. The Father himself, in the midnight of storm-clouds, wields his bolts with flashing hand. At that shock shivers the mighty earth; far flee the beasts and o'er all the world crouching terror lays low men's hearts: he with blazing bolt dashes down Athos or Rhodope or the Ceraunian peaks. The winds redouble; more and more thickens the rain; now woods, now shores wail with the mighty blast.

In fear of this, mark the months and signs of heaven; whither Saturn's cold star withdraws itself and into what circles of the sky strays the Cyllenian fire. Above all, worship the gods, and pay great Ceres her yearly rites, sacrificing on the glad sward, with the setting of winter's last days, when clear springtime is now come. Then are lambs fat and wine is most mellow; then sweet is sleep, and thick are the shadows on the hills. Then let all your country folk worship Ceres; for her wash the honeycomb with milk and soft wine, and three times let the luck-bringing victim pass round the young crops, while the whole choir of your comrades follow exulting, and loudly call Ceres into their homes; nor let any put his sickle to the ripe corn, ere for Ceres he crown his brows with oaken wreath, dance artless measures, and chant her hymns.

And that through unfailing signs we might learn these dangers — the heat, and the rain, and the cold-bringing winds — the Father himself decreed what warning the monthly moon should give, what should signal the fall of the wind, and what sight, oft seen, should prompt the farmer to keep his cattle nearer to their stalls. From the first, when the winds are rising, either the sea's straits begin to heave and swell, and on mountain-heights is heard a dry crash, or the shores ring a confused echo afar and the woodland murmur waxes loud. Then, too, the wave scarce keeps itself from the curved keel, when the fleet gulls fly back from mid-ocean, wafting their screams shoreward, and when the sea-coots sport on dry land, and the heron quits its home in the marsh and soars aloft above the clouds. Often, too, when wind is threatening, you will see stars shoot headlong from the sky, and behind them long trails of flame, gleaming white amid night's blackness; often light chaff and falling leaves fly about and feathers dance as they float on the water's top. But when it lightens from the region of the grim North, and when the home of the East and West winds thunders, then the ditches overflow and all the fields are flooded, while on the deep every mariner furls his dripping sails.

Never has rain brought ill to men unwarned. Either, as it gathers, the skyey cranes flee before it in the valleys' depths; or the heifer looks up to heaven, and with open nostrils snuffs the breeze, or the twittering swallow flits round the pools, and in the mud the frogs croak their old-time plaint. Often, too, the ant, wearing her narrow path, brings out her eggs from her inmost cells and a great rainbow drinks, and an army of rooks, quitting their pasture in long array, clang with serried wings. Again, there are the sea-birds manifold, and such as, in Cayster's sweet pools, rummage round about the Asian meadows. These you may see rivalling each other in pouring the copious spray over their shoulders, now dashing their heads in the waves, now running into the waters, and aimlessly exulting in the joy of the bath. Then the caitiff raven with deep tones calls down the rain, and in solitary state stalks along the dry sea-sand. Even at night, maidens that spin their tasks have not failed to mark a storm as they saw the oil sputter in the blazing lamp, and a mouldy fungus gather on the wick,

Nor less after rain may you foresee bright suns and cloudless skies, and know them by sure signs. For then the stars' bright edge is seen undimmed, and the moon rises under no debt to her brother's rays, and no thin fleecy clouds pass over the sky. Not now do the halcyons, the pride of Thetis, spread their wings on the shore to catch the warm sun, nor do the uncleanly swine think of tossing straw bundles to pieces with their snouts. But the mists are prone to seek the valleys, and rest on the plain, and the owl, as she watches the sunset from some high peak, vainly plies her evening song. Nisus is seen aloft in the clear sky, and Scylla suffers for the crimson lock. Wherever she flees, cleaving the light air with her wings, lo! savage and ruthless, with loud whirr Nisus follows through the sky; where Nisus mounts skyward, she flees in haste, cleaving the light air with her wings. Then the rooks, with narrowed throat, thrice or four times repeat their soft cries, and oft in their high nests, joyous with some strange, unwonted delight, chatter to each other amid the leaves. Glad are they, the rains over, to see once more their little brood and their sweet nests. Not, methinks, that they have wisdom from on high, or from Fate a larger foreknowledge of things to be; but that when the weather and fitful vapours of the sky have turned their course, and Jove, wet with the south winds, thickens what just now was rare, and makes rare what now was thick, the phases of their minds change, and their breasts now conceive impulses, other than they felt, when the wind was chasing the clouds. Hence that chorus of the birds in the fields, the gladness of the cattle, and the exulting cries of the rooks.

But if you pay heed to the swift sun and the moons, as they follow in order never will tomorrow's hour cheat you, nor will you be ensnared by a cloudless night. Soon as the moon gathers her returning fires, if she encloses a dark mist within dim horns, a heavy rain is awaiting farmers and seamen. But if over her face she spreads a maiden blush, there will be wind; as wind rises, golden Phoebe ever blushes. But if at her fourth rising — for that is our surest guide — she pass through the sky clear and with undimmed horns, then all that day, and the days born of it to the month's end, shall be free from rain and wind; and the sailors, safe in port, shall pay their vows on the shore to Glaucus, and to Panopea, and to Melicerta, Ino's son.

The sun, too, alike when rising and when sinking under the waves, will give tokens: tokens most sure attend the sun, both those he brings each dawn and those he shows as the stars arise. When, hidden in cloud, he has chequered with spots his early dawn, and is shrunk back in the centre of his disc, beware of showers; for from the deep the South-wind is sweeping, foe to tree and crop and herd. Or when at dawn scattered shafts break out amid thick clouds, or when Aurora rises pale, as she leaves Tithonus' saffron couch, ah! poorly then will the vine-leaf guard the ripe grapes, so thick the bristling hail dances rattling on the roofs. This, too, when he has traversed the sky and now is setting, it will profit you more to bear in mind; for oft we see fitful hues flit over his face: a dark one threatens rain; a fiery, east winds; but if the spots begin to mingle with glowing fire, then shall you see all nature rioting with wind and storm-clouds alike. On such a night let none urge me to fare o'er the deep, or pluck my cable from the land. Vet if, both when he brings back the day, and when he closes the day he brought, his disc is bright, then vain will be your fear of storm-clouds, and you will see the woods sway in the clear north wind.

In short, the tale told by even-fall, the quarter whence the wind drives clear the clouds, the purpose of the rainy South — of all the Sun will give you signs. Who dare say the Sun is false? Nay, he oft warns us that dark uprisings threaten, that treachery and hidden wars are upswelling. Nay, he had pity for Rome, when, after Caesar sank from sight, he veiled his shining face in dusky gloom, and a godless age feared everlasting night. Yet in that hour Earth also, and Ocean's plains, and ill-boding dogs and ominous birds, gave their tokens. How oft we saw Aetna flood the Cyclopes' fields, when streams poured from her rent furnaces, and she whirled balls of flame and molten rocks! Germany heard the clash of arms through all the sky; the Alps rocked with unwonted terrors. A voice, too, was heard of many amid the silence of solemn groves — an awful voice; and spectres, pale in wondrous wise, were seen at evening twilight; and beasts — O portent, terrible! — spake as men. Rivers halt, earth gapes wide, in temples the ivory weeps in sorrow, and bronzes sweat. Eridanus, king of rivers, washed away in the swirl of his mad eddy whole forests, and all across the plains swept cattle and stalls alike. Yea, in that same hour, threatening filaments ceased not to show themselves in ominous entrails, or blood to flow from wells, or lofty cliffs to echo all the night with the howl of wolves. Never from a cloudless sky fell more lightnings; never so oft blazed fearful comets. Therefore once more Philippi saw Roman armies clash in the shock of brother weapons, and the Powers above thought it not unseemly that Emathia and the broad plains of Haemus should twice batten on our blood. Yea, and a time shall come when in those lands, as the farmer toils at the soil with crooked plough, he shall find javelins eaten up with rusty mould, or with his heavy hoes shall strike on empty helms, and marvel at the giant bones in the upturned graves.

Gods of my country, Heroes of the land, thou Romulus, and thou Vesta, our mother, that guardest Tuscan Tiber and the Palatine of Rome, at least stay not this young prince from aiding a world uptorn! Enough has our life-blood long atoned for Laomedon's perjury at Troy; enough have Heaven's courts long grudged thee, O Caesar, to us, murmuring that thou payest heed to earthly triumphs! For here are right and wrong inverted; so many wars overrun the world, so many are the shapes of sin; the plough meets not its honour due; our lands, robbed of the tillers, lie waste, and the crooked pruning-hooks are forged into stiff swords. Here Euphrates, there Germany, awakes war; neighbour cities break the leagues that bound them and draw the sword; throughout the world rages the god of unholy strife: even as when from the barriers the chariots stream forth, round after round they speed, and the driver, tugging vainly at the reins, is borne along by the steeds, and the car heeds not the curb!