A Tarentine GardenGeorgicon, Bk.IV.vv. 116-148
Georgicon, Bk.IV.vv. 116-148
My helm points landwards; and yet would I fainRe-commission my Muse, and sail again.The breezes, as I coast by Pæstum, bringIts twice-blowing rosebeds’ scent; I would sing,But for emulous themes, how to inlayA garden’s borders with a rich arrayOf rainbow-hued gems that a loving careJoys to persuade them in due course to wear.Use and delight will play an equal part,Where’er the garden’s master has a heart.How fresh the curly endive there! how greenThe parsley on the bank! Almost is seenA melon swell, as with good cheer it fillsItself ’mid the grass from glistening rills!Everywhere a hand and head that know,To harvest in its season, we must sow,And from a sense no less of order, willTake heed that the late-blooming daffodil,Pliant acanthus, myrtles from sea-waveDrawing the pungent fragrance that they have,And grey-green ivies, form each its own zoneIn one plot—many gardens out of one.For I have marked what wonders may be wroughtBy gardeners mixing seeds and roots with thought.—In shadows craggy Tarentum’s tow’rs throw,An old Cilician, cast up, who knows how,By war, or vagrant mood, had grant, or none—Some waste acres—to live or starve upon.Though black Galeso waters a wide spaceOf yellow cornfields, and rich gardens graceVillas hard by, the scrub of this poor StrayWould, it might seem, have not sufficed to pay,As rough ploughland, a yoke of oxen’s keep,Or meanly pastured half a dozen sheep.As for potherbs, its thorns as likely wouldHave brought forth grapes as a man’s simplest food.Yet somehow sprang, to share with them the ground,Colewort, vervain, with, here and there, around,Lilies, and poppies—scant crop; but not greatThe Stranger’s hopes. At night returning lateTo the cheerless hut his own hands had raised,Laden with unbought dainties these, he praisedHis happy fortune from a more grateful breastThan a king seated at his unearned feast!I marked how he began; when next I came,Transformed the garden! Gardener the same.His the first roses, though an unkind spring,And ripe apples ere leaves were yellowing.While frost splintered the rocks, and ice and snow—Winter fighting March—bridled Galeso’s flow,He plucked Iris tresses, in mock distressAt missing Zephyrs, Summer’s tardiness!Not his hives to fail in queen bees; no swarmOf his was ever known to come to harm;Earliest the honey from his combs pressed;For who judged like him which flow’rs bees love best?Master the old man in tree-craft as well;His, choicest stone-pines, limes; for he could tellBy instinct where to plant; and as for yieldOf fruit, spring’s promise autumn aye fulfilled!He planted, and transplanted, as he choseFull-grown elms, hardwood pears, plum-grafted sloes;Even a leafy plane he dared to move—Nor hurt—to a fresh home within the grove.Two thousand years ago the old man died;And Nature that, with some laws, he defied,Will, patient, not forgetful, at his deathHave returned arcades, flow’r beds, to waste heath.Tradition shadows not their place.—His name?The Bard has not handed it down to fame.A sudden vision of his youth, no moreThan a parenthesis of lines, some score.In words how little we are told;—and yetHow impossible for us to forgetThat haunting figure, in his parterres madeOut of the wild with his own brain for spade!For not in Virgil’s verse alone he lives;In all Earth’s gardens the “Corycian” survives!
My helm points landwards; and yet would I fainRe-commission my Muse, and sail again.The breezes, as I coast by Pæstum, bringIts twice-blowing rosebeds’ scent; I would sing,But for emulous themes, how to inlayA garden’s borders with a rich arrayOf rainbow-hued gems that a loving careJoys to persuade them in due course to wear.Use and delight will play an equal part,Where’er the garden’s master has a heart.How fresh the curly endive there! how greenThe parsley on the bank! Almost is seenA melon swell, as with good cheer it fillsItself ’mid the grass from glistening rills!Everywhere a hand and head that know,To harvest in its season, we must sow,And from a sense no less of order, willTake heed that the late-blooming daffodil,Pliant acanthus, myrtles from sea-waveDrawing the pungent fragrance that they have,And grey-green ivies, form each its own zoneIn one plot—many gardens out of one.For I have marked what wonders may be wroughtBy gardeners mixing seeds and roots with thought.—In shadows craggy Tarentum’s tow’rs throw,An old Cilician, cast up, who knows how,By war, or vagrant mood, had grant, or none—Some waste acres—to live or starve upon.Though black Galeso waters a wide spaceOf yellow cornfields, and rich gardens graceVillas hard by, the scrub of this poor StrayWould, it might seem, have not sufficed to pay,As rough ploughland, a yoke of oxen’s keep,Or meanly pastured half a dozen sheep.As for potherbs, its thorns as likely wouldHave brought forth grapes as a man’s simplest food.Yet somehow sprang, to share with them the ground,Colewort, vervain, with, here and there, around,Lilies, and poppies—scant crop; but not greatThe Stranger’s hopes. At night returning lateTo the cheerless hut his own hands had raised,Laden with unbought dainties these, he praisedHis happy fortune from a more grateful breastThan a king seated at his unearned feast!I marked how he began; when next I came,Transformed the garden! Gardener the same.His the first roses, though an unkind spring,And ripe apples ere leaves were yellowing.While frost splintered the rocks, and ice and snow—Winter fighting March—bridled Galeso’s flow,He plucked Iris tresses, in mock distressAt missing Zephyrs, Summer’s tardiness!Not his hives to fail in queen bees; no swarmOf his was ever known to come to harm;Earliest the honey from his combs pressed;For who judged like him which flow’rs bees love best?Master the old man in tree-craft as well;His, choicest stone-pines, limes; for he could tellBy instinct where to plant; and as for yieldOf fruit, spring’s promise autumn aye fulfilled!He planted, and transplanted, as he choseFull-grown elms, hardwood pears, plum-grafted sloes;Even a leafy plane he dared to move—Nor hurt—to a fresh home within the grove.Two thousand years ago the old man died;And Nature that, with some laws, he defied,Will, patient, not forgetful, at his deathHave returned arcades, flow’r beds, to waste heath.Tradition shadows not their place.—His name?The Bard has not handed it down to fame.A sudden vision of his youth, no moreThan a parenthesis of lines, some score.In words how little we are told;—and yetHow impossible for us to forgetThat haunting figure, in his parterres madeOut of the wild with his own brain for spade!For not in Virgil’s verse alone he lives;In all Earth’s gardens the “Corycian” survives!
My helm points landwards; and yet would I fainRe-commission my Muse, and sail again.The breezes, as I coast by Pæstum, bringIts twice-blowing rosebeds’ scent; I would sing,But for emulous themes, how to inlayA garden’s borders with a rich arrayOf rainbow-hued gems that a loving careJoys to persuade them in due course to wear.Use and delight will play an equal part,Where’er the garden’s master has a heart.How fresh the curly endive there! how greenThe parsley on the bank! Almost is seenA melon swell, as with good cheer it fillsItself ’mid the grass from glistening rills!Everywhere a hand and head that know,To harvest in its season, we must sow,And from a sense no less of order, willTake heed that the late-blooming daffodil,Pliant acanthus, myrtles from sea-waveDrawing the pungent fragrance that they have,And grey-green ivies, form each its own zoneIn one plot—many gardens out of one.For I have marked what wonders may be wroughtBy gardeners mixing seeds and roots with thought.—In shadows craggy Tarentum’s tow’rs throw,An old Cilician, cast up, who knows how,By war, or vagrant mood, had grant, or none—Some waste acres—to live or starve upon.Though black Galeso waters a wide spaceOf yellow cornfields, and rich gardens graceVillas hard by, the scrub of this poor StrayWould, it might seem, have not sufficed to pay,As rough ploughland, a yoke of oxen’s keep,Or meanly pastured half a dozen sheep.As for potherbs, its thorns as likely wouldHave brought forth grapes as a man’s simplest food.Yet somehow sprang, to share with them the ground,Colewort, vervain, with, here and there, around,Lilies, and poppies—scant crop; but not greatThe Stranger’s hopes. At night returning lateTo the cheerless hut his own hands had raised,Laden with unbought dainties these, he praisedHis happy fortune from a more grateful breastThan a king seated at his unearned feast!
My helm points landwards; and yet would I fain
Re-commission my Muse, and sail again.
The breezes, as I coast by Pæstum, bring
Its twice-blowing rosebeds’ scent; I would sing,
But for emulous themes, how to inlay
A garden’s borders with a rich array
Of rainbow-hued gems that a loving care
Joys to persuade them in due course to wear.
Use and delight will play an equal part,
Where’er the garden’s master has a heart.
How fresh the curly endive there! how green
The parsley on the bank! Almost is seen
A melon swell, as with good cheer it fills
Itself ’mid the grass from glistening rills!
Everywhere a hand and head that know,
To harvest in its season, we must sow,
And from a sense no less of order, will
Take heed that the late-blooming daffodil,
Pliant acanthus, myrtles from sea-wave
Drawing the pungent fragrance that they have,
And grey-green ivies, form each its own zone
In one plot—many gardens out of one.
For I have marked what wonders may be wrought
By gardeners mixing seeds and roots with thought.—
In shadows craggy Tarentum’s tow’rs throw,
An old Cilician, cast up, who knows how,
By war, or vagrant mood, had grant, or none—
Some waste acres—to live or starve upon.
Though black Galeso waters a wide space
Of yellow cornfields, and rich gardens grace
Villas hard by, the scrub of this poor Stray
Would, it might seem, have not sufficed to pay,
As rough ploughland, a yoke of oxen’s keep,
Or meanly pastured half a dozen sheep.
As for potherbs, its thorns as likely would
Have brought forth grapes as a man’s simplest food.
Yet somehow sprang, to share with them the ground,
Colewort, vervain, with, here and there, around,
Lilies, and poppies—scant crop; but not great
The Stranger’s hopes. At night returning late
To the cheerless hut his own hands had raised,
Laden with unbought dainties these, he praised
His happy fortune from a more grateful breast
Than a king seated at his unearned feast!
I marked how he began; when next I came,Transformed the garden! Gardener the same.His the first roses, though an unkind spring,And ripe apples ere leaves were yellowing.While frost splintered the rocks, and ice and snow—Winter fighting March—bridled Galeso’s flow,He plucked Iris tresses, in mock distressAt missing Zephyrs, Summer’s tardiness!Not his hives to fail in queen bees; no swarmOf his was ever known to come to harm;Earliest the honey from his combs pressed;For who judged like him which flow’rs bees love best?Master the old man in tree-craft as well;His, choicest stone-pines, limes; for he could tellBy instinct where to plant; and as for yieldOf fruit, spring’s promise autumn aye fulfilled!He planted, and transplanted, as he choseFull-grown elms, hardwood pears, plum-grafted sloes;Even a leafy plane he dared to move—Nor hurt—to a fresh home within the grove.
I marked how he began; when next I came,
Transformed the garden! Gardener the same.
His the first roses, though an unkind spring,
And ripe apples ere leaves were yellowing.
While frost splintered the rocks, and ice and snow—
Winter fighting March—bridled Galeso’s flow,
He plucked Iris tresses, in mock distress
At missing Zephyrs, Summer’s tardiness!
Not his hives to fail in queen bees; no swarm
Of his was ever known to come to harm;
Earliest the honey from his combs pressed;
For who judged like him which flow’rs bees love best?
Master the old man in tree-craft as well;
His, choicest stone-pines, limes; for he could tell
By instinct where to plant; and as for yield
Of fruit, spring’s promise autumn aye fulfilled!
He planted, and transplanted, as he chose
Full-grown elms, hardwood pears, plum-grafted sloes;
Even a leafy plane he dared to move—
Nor hurt—to a fresh home within the grove.
Two thousand years ago the old man died;And Nature that, with some laws, he defied,Will, patient, not forgetful, at his deathHave returned arcades, flow’r beds, to waste heath.Tradition shadows not their place.—His name?The Bard has not handed it down to fame.A sudden vision of his youth, no moreThan a parenthesis of lines, some score.In words how little we are told;—and yetHow impossible for us to forgetThat haunting figure, in his parterres madeOut of the wild with his own brain for spade!For not in Virgil’s verse alone he lives;In all Earth’s gardens the “Corycian” survives!
Two thousand years ago the old man died;
And Nature that, with some laws, he defied,
Will, patient, not forgetful, at his death
Have returned arcades, flow’r beds, to waste heath.
Tradition shadows not their place.—
His name?
The Bard has not handed it down to fame.
A sudden vision of his youth, no more
Than a parenthesis of lines, some score.
In words how little we are told;—and yet
How impossible for us to forget
That haunting figure, in his parterres made
Out of the wild with his own brain for spade!
For not in Virgil’s verse alone he lives;
In all Earth’s gardens the “Corycian” survives!