GEORGICS.BOOK I.

FOOTNOTES:[3]Addison had already distinguished himself as a man of letters, and as an admirer of Dryden, by a copy of verses addressed to our author, and by a translation of the Fourth Book of the Georgics, exclusive of the story of Aristæus. This last performance is liberally commended by Dryden in the Postscript to Virgil. The following Essay, which has been much admired for judicious criticism contained in elegant language, was sent by him to our author, but without permission to prefix the writer's name. This circumstance led Tickell to throw some reflection on Dryden, as if he had meant to assume to himself the merit of the composition. This charge was refuted by Steele, in a letter to Congreve, prefixed to an edition of the comedy of "The Drummer," in 1722, who proves, that the Essay was the same paper which Dryden calls the Preface to the Georgics, and which he acknowledges to have been sent by a friend, whose name he was not at liberty to make public. See the articleAddisonin the "Biographia Britannica."

[3]Addison had already distinguished himself as a man of letters, and as an admirer of Dryden, by a copy of verses addressed to our author, and by a translation of the Fourth Book of the Georgics, exclusive of the story of Aristæus. This last performance is liberally commended by Dryden in the Postscript to Virgil. The following Essay, which has been much admired for judicious criticism contained in elegant language, was sent by him to our author, but without permission to prefix the writer's name. This circumstance led Tickell to throw some reflection on Dryden, as if he had meant to assume to himself the merit of the composition. This charge was refuted by Steele, in a letter to Congreve, prefixed to an edition of the comedy of "The Drummer," in 1722, who proves, that the Essay was the same paper which Dryden calls the Preface to the Georgics, and which he acknowledges to have been sent by a friend, whose name he was not at liberty to make public. See the articleAddisonin the "Biographia Britannica."

ARGUMENT.

The poet, in the beginning of this book, propounds the general design of each Georgic: and, after a solemn invocation of all the gods, who are any way related to his subject, he addresses himself, in particular, to Augustus, whom he compliments with divinity; and, after, strikes into his business. He shows the different kinds of tillage proper to different soils; traces out the original of agriculture; gives a catalogue of the husbandman's tools; specifies the employments peculiar to each season; describes the changes of the weather, with the signs in heaven and earth that forbode them; instances many of the prodigies that happened near the time of Julius Cæsar's death; and shuts up all with a supplication to the gods for the safety of Augustus, and the preservation of Rome.[4]

What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turnThe fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn;The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine,And how to raise on elms the teeming vine;The birth and genius of the frugal Bee,I sing, Mæcenas, and I sing to thee.Ye deities! who fields and plains protect,Who rule the seasons, and the year direct,Bacchus and fostering Ceres, powers divine,Who gave us corn for mast, for water, wine—Ye Fauns, propitious to the rural swains,Ye Nymphs, that haunt the mountains and the plains,Join in my work, and to my numbers bringYour needful succour; for your gifts I sing.And thou, whose trident struck the teeming earth,And made a passage for the courser's birth;And thou, for whom the Cæan shore sustainsThe milky herds, that graze the flowery plains;And thou, the shepherds' tutelary god,Leave, for a while, O Pan! thy loved abode;And, if Arcadian fleeces be thy care,From fields and mountains to my song repair.Inventor, Pallas, of the fattening oil,Thou founder of the plough, and ploughman's toil;And thou, whose hands the shrowd-like cypress rear,}Come, all ye gods and goddesses, that wear}The rural honours, and increase the year;}You, who supply the ground with seeds of grain;And you, who swell those seeds with kindly rain;And chiefly thou, whose undetermined stateIs yet the business of the gods' debate,Whether in after times to be declaredThe patron of the world, and Rome's peculiar guard,Or o'er the fruits and seasons to preside,And the round circuit of the year to guide—Powerful of blessings, which thou strew'st around,And with thy goddess mother's myrtle crowned.Or wilt thou, Cæsar, chuse the watery reign,To smooth the surges, and correct the main?Then mariners, in storms, to thee shall pray;}Even utmost Thule shall thy power obey;}And Neptune shall resign the fasces of the sea.}The watery virgins for thy bed shall strive,And Tethys all her waves in dowry give.Or wilt thou bless our summers with thy rayAnd, seated near the Balance, poise the days,Where, in the void of heaven, a space is free,Betwixt the Scorpion and the Maid, for thee?The Scorpion, ready to receive thy laws,Yields half his region, and contracts his claws.Whatever part of heaven thou shalt obtain,(For let not hell presume of such a reign;Nor let so dire a thirst of empire moveThy mind, to leave thy kindred gods above;Though Greece admires Elysium's blest retreat,Though Proserpine affects her silent seat,And, importuned by Ceres to remove,Prefers the fields below to those above),Be thou propitious, Cæsar! guide my course,And to my bold endeavours add thy force:Pity the poet's and the ploughman's cares;}Interest thy greatness in our mean affairs,}And use thyself betimes to hear and grant our prayers.}While yet the spring is young, while earth unbindsHer frozen bosom to the western winds;While mountain snows dissolve against the sun,And streams, yet new, from precipices run;Even in this early dawning of the year,Produce the plough, and yoke the sturdy steer,And goad him till he groans beneath his toil,Till the bright share is buried in the soil.That crop rewards the greedy peasant's pains,}Which twice the sun, and twice the cold sustains,}And bursts the crowded barns with more than promised gains.}But, ere we stir the yet unbroken ground,The various course of seasons must be found;The weather, and the setting of the winds,The culture suiting to the several kindsOf seeds and plants, and what will thrive and rise,And what the genius of the soil denies.This ground with Bacchus, that with Ceres, suits:That other loads the trees with happy fruits:A fourth, with grass unbidden, decks the ground.Thus Tmolus is with yellow saffron crowned:India black ebon and white ivory bears;And soft Idume weeps her odorous tearsThus Pontus sends her beaver-stones from far;And naked Spaniards temper steel for war:Epirus, for the Elean chariot, breeds(In hopes of palms) a race of running steeds.This is th' original contract; these the lawsImposed by Nature, and by Nature's cause,On sundry places, when Deucalion hurledHis mother's entrails on the desert world;Whence men, a hard laborious kind, were born.}Then borrow part of winter for thy corn;}And early, with thy team, the glebe in furrows turn;}That, while the turf lies open and unbound,Succeeding suns may bake the mellow ground.But, if the soil be barren, only scarThe surface, and but lightly print the share,When cold Arcturus rises with the sun;Lest wicked weeds the corn should over-runIn watery soils; or lest the barren sandShould suck the moisture from the thirsty land.Both these unhappy soils the swain forbears,And keeps a sabbath of alternate years,That the spent earth may gather heart again,And, bettered by cessation, bear the grain.At least where vetches, pulse, and tares, have stood,And stalks of lupines grew, (a stubborn wood,)The ensuing season, in return, may bearThe bearded product of the golden year:[5]For flax and oats will burn the tender field,And sleepy poppies harmful harvests yield.But sweet vicissitudes of rest and toilMake easy labour, and renew the soil.Yet sprinkle sordid ashes all around,And load with fattening dung thy fallow ground.Thus change of seeds for meagre soils is best;And earth manured, not idle, though at rest.Long practice has a sure improvement found,With kindled fires to burn the barren ground,When the light stubble, to the flames resigned,Is driven along, and crackles in the wind.Whether from hence the hollow womb of earthIs warmed with secret strength for better birth;Or, when the latent vice is cured by fire,Redundant humours through the pores expire;Or that the warmth distends the chinks, and makesNew breathings, whence new nourishment she takes;Or that the heat the gaping ground constrains,New knits the surface, and new strings the veins;Lest soaking showers should pierce her secret seat,}Or freezing Boreas chill her genial heat,}Or scorching suns too violently beat.}Nor is the profit small the peasant makes,Who smooths with harrows, or who pounds with rakes,The crumbling clods: nor Ceres from on highRegards his labours with a grudging eye;Nor his, who ploughs across the furrowed grounds,And on the back of earth inflicts new wounds;For he, with frequent exercise, commandsThe unwilling soil, and tames the stubborn lands.Ye swains, invoke the powers who rule the sky,For a moist summer, and a winter dry;For winter drought rewards the peasant's pain,And broods indulgent on the buried grain.Hence Mysia boasts her harvests, and the topsOf Gargarus admire their happy crops.When first the soil receives the fruitful seed,Make no delay, but cover it with speed:So fenced from cold, the pliant furrows break,Before the surly clod resists the rake;And call the floods from high, to rush amainWith pregnant streams, to swell the teeming grain.Then, when the fiery suns too fiercely play,And shrivelled herbs on withering stems decay,The wary ploughman, on the mountain's brow,Undams his watery stores—huge torrents flow,And, rattling down the rocks, large moisture yield,Tempering the thirsty fever of the field—And, lest the stem, too feeble for the freight,Should scarce sustain the head's unwieldy weight,Sends in his feeding flocks betimes, to invadeThe rising bulk of the luxuriant blade,Ere yet the aspiring offspring of the grainO'ertops the ridges of the furrowed plain;And drains the standing waters, when they yieldToo large a beverage to the drunken field:But most in autumn, and the showery spring,When dubious months uncertain weather bring;When fountains open, when impetuous rainSwells hasty brooks, and pours upon the plain;When earth with slime and mud is covered o'er,Or hollow places spew their watery store.Nor yet the ploughman, nor the labouring steer,Sustain alone the hazards of the year:But glutton geese, and the Strymonian crane,With foreign troops invade the tender grain;And towering weeds malignant shadows yield;And spreading succory chokes the rising field.The sire of gods and men, with hard decrees,Forbids our plenty to be bought with ease,And wills that mortal men, inured to toil,Should exercise, with pains, the grudging soil;Himself invented first the shining share,And whetted human industry by care;Himself did handicrafts and arts ordain,Nor suffered sloth to rust his active reign.Ere this, no peasant vexed the peaceful ground,Which only turfs and greens for altars found:No fences parted fields, nor marks nor boundsDistinguished acres of litigious grounds;But all was common, and the fruitful earthWas free to give her unexacted birth.Jove added venom to the viper's brood,And swelled, with raging storms, the peaceful flood;Commissioned hungry wolves t' infest the fold,And shook from oaken leaves the liquid gold;Removed from human reach the cheerful fire,And from the rivers bade the wine retire;That studious need might useful arts explore;From furrowed fields to reap the foodful store,And force the veins of clashing flints t' expireThe lurking seeds of their celestial fire.Then first on seas the hollowed alder swam;Then sailors quartered heaven, and found a nameFor every fixed and every wandering star—The Pleiads, Hyads, and the Northern Car.Then toils for beasts, and lime for birds, were found,And deep-mouthed dogs did forest-walks surround;And casting-nets were spread in shallow brooks,Drags in the deep, and baits were hung on hooks.Then saws were toothed, and sounding axes made;(For wedges first did yielding wood invade,)And various arts in order did succeed,(What cannot endless labour, urged by need?)First Ceres taught, the ground with grain to sow,And armed with iron shares the crooked plough;When now Dodonian oaks no more suppliedTheir mast, and trees their forest-fruit denied.Soon was his labour doubled to the swain,And blasting mildews blackened all his grain:Tough thistles choked the fields, and killed the corn,And an unthrifty crop of weeds was born:Then burs and brambles, an unbidden crewOf graceless guests, the unhappy fields subdue;And oats unblest, and darnel domineers,And shoots its head above the shining ears;So that, unless the land with daily careIs exercised, and, with an iron warOf rakes and harrows, the proud foes expelled,And birds with clamours frighted from the field—Unless the boughs are lopped that shade the plain,And heaven invoked with vows for fruitful rain—On others'[6]crops you may with envy look,And shake for food the long-abandoned oak.Nor must we pass untold what arms they wield,Who labour tillage and the furrowed field;Without whose aid the ground her corn denies,And nothing can be sown, and nothing rise—The crooked plough, the share, the towering heightOf waggons, and the cart's unwieldy weight,The sled, the tumbril, hurdles, and the flail,The fan of Bacchus, with the flying sail—These all must be prepared, if ploughmen hopeThe promised blessing of a bounteous crop.Young elms, with early force, in copses bow,Fit for the figure of the crooked plough.Of eight foot long a fastened beam prepare:}On either side the head, produce an ear;}And sink a socket for the shining share.}Of beech the plough-tail, and the bending yoke,Or softer linden hardened in the smoke.I could be long in precepts; but I fearSo mean a subject might offend your ear.Delve of convenient depth your thrashing floor:With tempered clay then fill and face it o'er;And let the weighty roller run the round,To smooth the surface of the unequal ground;Lest, cracked with summer heats, the flooring flies,Or sinks, and through the crannies weeds arise:For sundry foes the rural realm surround:The field-mouse builds her garner under groundFor gathered grain: the blind laborious moleIn winding mazes works her hidden hole:In hollow caverns vermin make abode—The hissing serpent, and the swelling toad:The corn-devouring weasel here abides,And the wise ant her wintery store provides.Mark well the flowering almonds in the wood:If odorous blooms the bearing branches load,The glebe will answer to the sylvan reign;Great heats will follow, and large crops of grain.But, if a wood of leaves o'ershade the tree,Such and so barren will thy harvest be:In vain the hind shall vex the thrashing-floor;For empty chaff and straw will be thy store.Some steep their seed, and some in cauldrons boil,With vigorous nitre and with lees of oil,O'er gentle fires, the exuberant juice to drain,And swell the flattering husks with fruitful grain.Yet is not the success for years assured,Though chosen is the seed, and fully cured,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, degenerate 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,Than sailors homeward bent, who cut their wayThrough Helle's stormy straits, and oyster-breeding sea.But, when Astræa'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[7]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 foundA 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 waggoner descends;Nor cease your sowing till mid-winter ends.For this, through twelve bright signs Apollo guidesThe year, and earth in several climes divides.Five girdles bind the skies: the torrid zoneGlows with the passing and repassing sun:Far on the right and left, the extremes of heavenTo frosts and snows and bitter blasts are given:Betwixt the midst and these, the gods assignedTwo 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 riseO'er Scythian hills, and one in Libyan skies;The first sublime in heaven, the last is whirledBelow the regions of the nether world.Around our pole the spiry Dragon glides,And, like a winding stream, the Bears divides—The less and greater, who, by Fate's decree,Abhor to dive beneath the northern sea.[8]There, as they say, perpetual night is foundIn silence brooding on the unhappy ground:Or, when Aurora leaves our northern sphere,She lights the downward heaven, 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 meetTo spread the flying canvas for the fleet.Observe what stars arise, or disappear;And the four quarters of the rolling year.But, when cold weather and continued rainThe labouring 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'erHis sacks, or measure his increasing store,Or sharpen stakes, or head the forks, or twineThe 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 restrainFrom necessary works the labouring swain.Even holidays and feasts permission yieldTo float the meadows, or to fence the field,To fire the brambles, snare the birds, and steepIn wholesome water-falls the woolly sheep.And oft the drudging ass is driven, with toil,To neighbouring towns with apples and with oil;Returning, late and loaden, home with gainOf bartered pitch, and hand-mills for the grain.The lucky days, in each revolving moon,For labour chuse: the fifth be sure to shun;That gave the Furies and pale Pluto birth,And armed, against the skies, the sons of earth.With mountains piled on mountains, thrice they stroveTo scale the steepy battlements of Jove;And thrice his lightning and red thunder played,And their demolished works in ruin laid.The seventh is, next the tenth, the best to joinYoung 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.Parched meads and stubble mow by Phœbe's light,Which both require the coolness of the night;For moisture then abounds, and pearly rainsDescend in silence to refresh the plains.The wife and husband equally conspireTo work by night, and rake the winter fire:He sharpens torches in the glimmering 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 day-light 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 labouring 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 escaped from stormy seas,First crown their vessels, then indulge their ease.Yet that's the proper time to thrash the woodFor mast of oak, your fathers' homely food;To gather laurel-berries, and the spoilOf bloody myrtles, and to press your oil;For stalking cranes to set the guileful snare;T'inclose the stags in toils, and hunt the hare;With Balearic slings, or Gnossian bow,To persecute from far the flying doe,Then, when the fleecy 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 swelledWith milky moisture, overlooks the field.Even when the farmer, now secure of fear,Sends in the swains to spoil the finished year,Even 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 whirled aloft the lighter stubble borne:With such a force the flying rack is driven,And such a winter wears the face of heaven:And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain,Sucked by the spongy clouds from off the main:The lofty skies[9]at once come pouring down,The promised crop and golden labours drown.The dikes are filled; 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,Involved 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 every human breast;Their pride is humbled, and their fear confessed,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 dashed 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 heaven thy due devotions pay,And annual gifts on Ceres' altars lay.When winter's rage abates, when cheerful hoursAwake the spring, and spring awakes the flowers,On the green turf thy careless limbs display,And celebrate the mighty Mother's day;For then the hills with pleasing shades are crowned,And sleeps are sweeter on the silken ground:With milder beams the sun securely shines;[10]Fat are the lambs, and luscious are the wines.Let every swain adore her power divine,And milk and honey mix with sparkling wine:Let all the choir of clowns attend the show,In long procession, shouting as they go;Invoking her to bless their yearly stores,Inviting plenty to their crowded floors.Thus in the spring, and thus in summer's heat,Before the sickles touch the ripening wheat,On Ceres call; and let the labouring hindWith oaken wreaths his hollow temples bind:On Ceres let him call, and Ceres praise,With uncouth dances, and with country lays.And that by certain signs we may presageOf heats and rains, and wind's impetuous rage,The Sovereign of the heavens has set on highThe moon, to mark the changes of the sky;When southern blasts should cease, and when the swainShould near their folds his feeding flocks restrain.For, ere the rising winds begin to roar,The working seas advance to wash the shore;Soft whispers run along the leafy woods,And mountains whistle to the murmuring floods.Even then the doubtful billows scarce abstainFrom the tossed vessel on the troubled main;When crying cormorants forsake the sea,And, stretching to the covert, wing their way;When sportful coots run skimming o'er the strand;When watchful herons leave their watery stand,And, mounting upward with erected flight,Gain on the skies, and soar above the sight.And oft, before tempestuous winds arise,The seeming stars fall headlong from the skies,And, shooting through the darkness, gild the nightWith sweeping glories, and long trails of light;And chaff with eddy-winds is whirled around,And dancing leaves are lifted from the ground;And floating feathers on the waters play.But, when the winged thunder takes his wayFrom the cold north, and east and west engage,And at their frontiers meet with equal rage,The clouds are crushed; a glut of gathered rain}The hollow ditches fills, and floats the plain;}And sailors furl their dropping sheets amain.}Wet weather seldom hurts the most unwise;So plain the signs, such prophets are the skies.The wary crane foresees it first, and sailsAbove the storm, and leaves the lowly vales;The cow looks up, and from afar can findThe change of heaven, and snuffs it in the wind;The swallow skims the river's watery face;The frogs renew the croaks of their loquacious race;The careful ant her secret cell forsakes,And drags her eggs along the narrow tracks:At either horn the rainbow drinks the flood;}Huge flocks of rising rooks forsake their food,}And, crying, seek the shelter of the wood.}Besides, the several sorts of watery fowls,That swim the seas, or haunt the standing pools,The swans that sail along the silver flood,And dive with stretching necks to search their food,Then lave their backs with sprinkling dews in vain,And stem the stream to meet the promised rain.The crow with clamorous cries the shower demands,And single stalks along the desert sands.The nightly virgin, while her wheel she plies,Foresees the storm impending in the skies,When sparkling lamps their sputtering light advance,And in the sockets oily bubbles dance.Then, after showers, 'tis easy to descryReturning suns, and a serener sky:The stars shine smarter; and the moon adorns,As with unborrowed beams, her sharpened horns.The filmy gossamer now flits no more,Nor halcyons bask on the short sunny shore:Their litter is not tossed by sows unclean;But a blue droughty mist descends upon the plain;And owls, that mark the setting sun, declareA star-light evening, and a morning fair.Towering aloft, avenging Nisus flies,While, dared, below the guilty Scylla lies.Wherever frighted Scylla flies away,Swift Nisus follows, and pursues his prey:Where injured Nisus takes his airy course,Thence trembling Scylla flies, and shuns his force.This punishment pursues the unhappy maid,And thus the purple hair is dearly paid:Then, thrice the ravens rend the liquid air,And croaking notes proclaim the settled fair.Then round their airy palaces they fly,To greet the sun; and, seized with secret joy,When storms are over-blown, with food repairTo their forsaken nests, and callow care.Not that I think their breasts with heavenly soulsInspired, as man, who destiny controls;But, with the changeful temper of the skies,As rains condense, and sunshine rarefies,So turn the species in their altered minds,Composed by calms, and discomposed by winds.From hence proceeds the birds' harmonious voice;From hence the cows exult, and frisking lambs rejoice.Observe the daily circle of the sun,And the short year of each revolving moon:By them thou shalt foresee the following day,Nor shall a starry night thy hopes betray.When first the moon appears, if then she shroudsHer silver crescent tipped with sable clouds,Conclude she bodes a tempest on the main,And brews for fields impetuous floods of rain.Or, if her face with fiery flushing glow,Expect the rattling winds aloft to blow.But, four nights old, (for that's the surest sign,)With sharpened horns if glorious then she shine,Next day, nor only that, but all the moon,'Till her revolving race be wholly run,Are void of tempests, both by land and sea,And sailors in the port their promised vow shall pay.Above the rest, the sun, who never lies,Foretells the change of weather in the skies:For, if he rise unwilling to his race,Clouds on his brow, and spots upon his face,Or if through mists he shoots his sullen beams,Frugal of light, in loose and straggling streams;Suspect a drizzling day, with southern rain,Fatal to fruits, and flocks, and promised grain.Or if Aurora, with half-opened eyes,And a pale sickly cheek, salute the skies;How shall the vine, with tender leaves, defendHer teeming clusters, when the storms descend,When ridgy roofs and tiles can scarce availTo bar the ruin of the rattling hail?But, more than all, the setting sun survey,When down the steep of heaven he drives the day:For oft we find him finishing his race,With various colours erring on his face.If fiery red his glowing globe descends,High winds and furious tempests he portends:But, if his cheeks are swoln with livid blue,He bodes wet weather by his watery hue:If dusky spots are varied on his brow,And, streaked with red, a troubled colour show;That sullen mixture shall at once declareWinds, rain, and storms, and elemental war.What desperate madman then would venture o'erThe frith, or haul his cables from the shore?But, if with purple rays he brings the light,And a pure heaven resigns to quiet night,No rising winds, or falling storms, are nigh;}But northern breezes through the forest fly,}And drive the rack, and purge the ruffled sky.}The unerring sun by certain signs declares,What the late even or early morn prepares,And when the south projects a stormy day,And when the clearing north will puff the clouds away.The sun reveals the secrets of the sky;And who dares give the source of light the lie?The change of empires often he declares,Fierce tumults, hidden treasons, open wars.He first the fate of Cæsar did foretell,And pitied Rome, when Rome in Cæsar fell;In iron clouds concealed the public light,And impious mortals feared eternal night.Nor was the fact foretold by him alone,—Nature herself stood forth, and seconded the sun.Earth, air, and seas, with prodigies were signed;And birds obscene, and howling dogs, divined.What rocks did Ætna's bellowing mouth expireFrom her torn entrails! and what floods of fire!What clanks were heard, in German skies afar,Of arms, and armies rushing to the war!Dire earthquakes rent the solid Alps below,And from their summits shook the eternal snow;Pale spectres in the close of night were seen,And voices heard, of more than mortal men,In silent groves: dumb sheep and oxen spoke;And streams ran backward, and their beds forsook:The yawning earth disclosed the abyss of hell,}The weeping statues did the wars foretell,}And holy sweat from brazen idols fell.}Then, rising in his might, the king of floodsRushed through the forests, tore the lofty woods,And, rolling onward, with a sweepy sway,Bore houses, herds, and labouring hinds away.Blood sprang from wells, wolves howled in towns by night,And boding victims did the priests affright.Such peals of thunder never poured from high,Nor forky lightnings flashed from such a sullen sky.Red meteors ran across the etherial space;Stars disappeared, and comets took their place.For this, the Emathian plains once more were strowed}With Roman bodies, and just heaven thought good}To fatten twice those fields with Roman blood.}Then, after length of time, the labouring swains,Who turn the turfs of those unhappy plains,Shall rusty piles from the ploughed furrows take,And over empty helmets pass the rake—Amazed at antique titles on the stones,And mighty reliques of gigantic bones.Ye home-born deities, of mortal birth!Thou father Romulus, and mother Earth,Goddess unmoved! whose guardian arms extendO'er Tuscan Tyber's course, and Roman towers defend;With youthful Cæsar your joint powers engage,Nor hinder him to save the sinking age.O! let the blood, already spilt, atoneFor the past crimes of cursed Laomedon!Heaven wants thee there; and long the gods, we know,Have grudged thee, Cæsar, to the world below,Where fraud and rapine right and wrong confound,}Where impious arms from every part resound,}And monstrous crimes in every shape are crowned.}The peaceful peasant to the wars is pressed;The fields lie fallow in inglorious rest;The plain no pasture to the flock affords;The crooked scythes are straightened into swords:And there Euphrates her soft offspring arms,And here the Rhine rebellows with alarms;The neighbouring cities range on several sides,}Perfidious Mars long-plighted leagues divides,}And o'er the wasted world in triumph rides.}So four fierce coursers, starting to the race,Scour through the plain, and lengthen every pace;Nor reins, nor curbs, nor threatening cries, they fear,But force along the trembling charioteer.

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