Book II

Thus far the tillage of the fields and the stars of heaven: now thee, Bacchus, will I sing, and with thee the forest saplings, and the offspring of the slow-growing olive. Hither, O Lenaean sire! Here all is full of thy bounties; for thee blossoms the field teeming with the harvest of the vine, and the vintage foams in the brimming vats. Come hither, O Lenaean sire, strip off thy buskins and with me plunge thy naked legs in the new must.

Firstly, Nature has ways manifold for rearing trees. 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, and the broad-leaved tree, mightiest 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. 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, 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. Nay, 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.

Up! therefore, ye 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 draw thou near, O Maecenas, and with me traverse the toilsome course I have essayed, thou, my pride, to whom of right belongs the chief share in my fame; yea, spread thy 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 nigh, and skirt the near shore-line — the land is close at hand. Not here will I detain thee 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, 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: as it is, the mother-tree's branches and deep leafage overshadow it, robbing it of fruit as it glows, 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 the olden flavour, and the vine bears sorry clusters, for the birds to pillage.

On all, be sure, must labour be spent; all must be marshalled into trenches, and tamed with much trouble. But olives answer best from truncheons, vines from layers, Paphian myrtles from the solid stem. 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, 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, 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 into the sappy bark. Or, again, knotless boles are cut open, and with wedges a path is cleft deep into the core; then fruitful slips 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, 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 as Lesbos gathers from Methymna's boughs: there are Thasian vines, there are the pale Mareotic — these suited for rich soils, those for lighter ones — the Psithian, too, better for raisin-wine, and the thin Lagean, sure some day to trouble the feet and tie the tongue; the Purple and the Precian and thou, Rhaetic — how shall I sing thee? Yet even so, vie not thou with Falernian vaults! 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, either in richness of stream or in lasting through many years. Nor would I pass by thee, vine of Rhodes, welcome to the gods and the banquet's second course, and thee, Bumastus, with thy swelling clusters. But for the many kinds, or the names they bear, there is no numbering — nor, indeed, is the numbering worth the pains. He who would have knowledge of this would likewise be fain 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 know how many billows of the Ionian sea roll shoreward.

Nor yet can all soils bear all fruits. 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 — 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? Why tell of the Aethiopian 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 tree-top. 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, 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 no winds fall its leaves; its blossom clings most firmly; with it the Mede treats his mouth's noisome breath, and cures the asthma of the old.

But neither Media's groves, land of wondrous wealth, nor beauteous Ganges, nor Hermus, thick with gold, may vie with Italy's glories — not Bactra, nor India, nor all Panchaea, rich in incense-bearing sand. This land no bulls with nostrils breathing flame, ever ploughed for the sowing of the monstrous dragon's teeth; no human crop ever bristled with helms and serried lances; but teeming fruits have filled her and the Vine-god's Massic juice; she is the home of olives and of joyous herds. Hence comes the war-horse, stepping proudly o'er the plain; hence thy snowy flocks, Clitumnus, and the bull, that noblest victim, which, oft steeped in thy sacred stream, have led to the shrines of the gods the triumphs of Rome. Here is eternal spring, and summer in months not her own; twice the cattle breed, twice the tree serves us with fruits. But ravening tigers are far away, and the savage seed of lions; no aconite deludes hapless gatherers, nor does the scaly serpent dart his huge rings over the ground, or with his vast train wind himself into a coil. Think, too, of all the noble cities, the achievement of man's toil, all the towns his handiwork has piled high on steepy crags, and the streams that glide beneath those ancient walls. Shall I tell of the seas, washing the land above and below? Or of our mighty lakes? Of thee, Larius, our greatest; and thee, Benacus, with the roaring, surging swell of the sea? Shall I tell of our havens, and the barrier thrown across the Lucrine, and how Ocean roars aloud in wrath, where the Julian waters echo afar as the sea is flung back, and the Tyrrhenian tide pours into the channels of Avernus? Yea, and this land has shown silver streams and copper-mines in her veins, and has flowed rich with gold. She has mothered a vigorous breed of men, Marsians and the Sabine stock, the Ligurian, inured to hardship, and the Volscian spearmen; yea, the Decii, the Marii, the great Camilli, the Scipios, hardy warriors, and thee, greatest of all, O Caesar, who, already victorious in Asia's farthest bounds, now drivest the craven Indian from our hills of Rome. Hail, land of Saturn, great mother of earth's fruits, great mother of men! 'Tis for thee I essay the theme of olden praise and art; for thee I dare to unseal the sacred founts, 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, 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, a level space thick with herbage and prolific in nutriment (such as we may oft-times descry in a mountain's hollow dell, 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 — 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, what time by the altars the sleek Tuscan has blown his ivory pipe, and in broad chargers we present the steaming meat of sacrifice.

But if you are more fain to keep herds and calves, or to breed sheep, or goats that blight the plants, then haste to the glades and distant meads of rich Tarentum, or to such a plain as hapless Mantua lost, giving food to snowy swans with its grassy stream. 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 — 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, levelling groves that have idled many a year, and up-tearing by their deepest roots the olden homes of the birds — these, lo! leave their nests and seek 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 have eaten out betoken that no other lands give serpents food 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, 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 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 — 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 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 crops and mellows not in ploughing; 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 trickle through and 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, but like pitch grows sticky in the fingers when held. A moist 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; so does 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 well, to cut up the huge knolls with trenches, and to expose the upturned clods to the North-wind, long ere you plant the vine's gladsome stock. Fields of crumbling soil are the best; to this the winds see, the chill frosts, and the stout delver, who loosens and stirs the acres. 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, they print on the bark of the trees the quarter of the sky each faced, 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, 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 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, not merely that the view may feed 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, 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 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 the highest sprays, nor pluck cuttings from the tree-top — 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, 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 tree-tops, wrapping all the grove in fire, and belching skyward black clouds of thick pitchy darkness; 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.

And let no counsellor 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 the white bird, the foe of long snakes, is come, or close on autumn's first cold, ere yet the fiery sun touches winter with his steeds, and summer is now waning. Spring it is that aids the woods and the forest leafage; in spring the soil swells and calls for life-giving seed. Then Heaven, the Father almighty, comes down in fruitful showers into the lap of his joyous spouse, and his might, with her mighty frame commingling, nurtures all growths. Then pathless copses ring with birds melodious, and in their settled time the herds renew their loves. The bountiful land brings forth, and beneath the West's warm breezes the fields loosen their bosoms; in all things abounds soft moisture, and the grasses safely dare to trust themselves to face the new suns; the vine-tendrils fear not the rising of the South, or a storm driven down the sky by mighty blasts of the North, but thrust forth their buds and unfold all their leaves. Even such days, I could suppose, shone at the first dawn of the infant world; even such was the course they held. Springtime that was; the great world was keeping spring, and the East-winds spared their wintry blasts, when the first cattle drank in the light and man's iron race reared its head from the hard fields, and wild beasts were let loose into the forests and the stars into heaven. Nor could tender things endure this world's stress, did not such long repose come between the seasons' cold and heat, and did not heaven's gracious welcome await the earth.

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 will steal in, and the plants sown will take heart. And, ere now, some have been known to overlay 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 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, by whose aid the vines may learn to mount, scorn the winds, 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, 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 — ere that they shrink from the knife — then at last set up 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; 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. For no other crime is it that a goat is slain 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 goat-skins. 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 thee, O Bacchus, in joyous songs, and to thee hang waving amulets from the tall pine. 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; 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 pains spent; for thrice or four times each year must all your soil be split open, and the clods 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 — 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: be the last to reap. Twice the shade thickens on the vines; twice weeds cover the vineyard with thronging briars. Heavy is either toil: "praise thou large estates, farm a small one." Further, rough shoots of broom must be cut amid the woods, and river rushes on the banks, 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.

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. 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, 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 plant and bestow care? Why need I pursue greater themes? The willows and lowly broom — they either yield leafage for the 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 debt to the harrow, none to the care of man! 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, 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 the 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, take shape and are hollowed by the sharp steel. So, too, the light alder, sent down the Po, swims the raging wave; so, too, the bees hive their swarms in the hollow cork-trees, and in the heart of a rotting ilex. What boon of equal note have the gifts of Bacchus yielded? Bacchus has even given occasion of offence. It was he who quelled in death the maddened Centaurs, Rhoetus, and Pholus, and Hylaeus, menacing the Lapiths with mighty bowl.

O happy husbandmen! too happy, should they come to know their blessings! for whom, far from the clash of arms, most righteous Earth, unbidden, pours forth from her soil an easy sustenance. What though no stately mansion with proud portals disgorges at dawn from all its halls a tide of visitors, though they never gaze at doors inlaid with lovely tortoise-shell or at raiment tricked with gold or at bronzes of Ephyra, though their white wool be not stained with Assyrian dye, or their clear oil's service spoiled by cassia? Yet theirs is repose without care, and a life that knows no fraud, but is rich in treasures manifold. Yea, the ease of broad domains, caverns, and living lakes, and cool vales, the lowing of the kine, 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 quitted the earth, Justice planted her latest steps.

But as for me — first above all, may the sweet Muses whose holy emblems, under the spell of a mighty love, I bear, take me to themselves, and show me heaven's pathways, the stars, the sun's many lapses, the moon's many labours; whence come tremblings of the earth, the force to make deep seas swell and burst their barriers, then sink back upon themselves; why winter suns hasten so fast to dip in Ocean, or what delays clog the lingering nights. But if the chill blood about my heart bar me from reaching those realms of nature, let my delight be the country, and the running streams amid the dells — may I love the waters and the woods, though fame be lost. 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' mighty shade!

Blessed is he who has been able to win knowledge of the causes of things, and has cast beneath his feet all fear and unyielding Fate, and the howls of hungry Acheron! Happy, too, is he who knows the woodland gods. Pan and old Silvanus and the sister Nymphs! Him no honours the people give can move, no purple of kings, no strife rousing brother to break with brother, no Dacian swooping down from his leagued Danube, no power of Rome, no kingdoms doomed to fall: he knows naught of the pang of pity for the poor, or of envy of the rich. He plucks the fruits which his boughs, which his ready fields, of their own free will, have borne; nor has he beheld the iron laws, the Forum's madness, or the public archives. Others vex with oars seas unknown, dash upon the sword, or press into courts and the portals of kings. One wreaks ruin on a city and its hapless homes, that he may drink from a jewelled cup and sleep on Tyrian purple; another hoards up wealth and broods over buried gold; one is dazed and astounded by the Rostra; another, open-mouthed, is carried away by the plaudits of princes and of people, rolling again and again along the benches. Gleefully they steep themselves in their brothers' blood; for exile they change their sweet homes and hearths, 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 and his little grandsons, hence for his herds of kine 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, the swine come home gladdened with acorns, the forests 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 kine droop 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 midst and his comrades wreathing the bowl, offers libation and calls on thee, O god of the Wine-press, 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, thus Rome became of all things the fairest, and with a single city's wall enclosed her seven hills. Nay, before the Cretan king held sceptre, 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, 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.