Georgics (Oxford World's Classics)
Page 6
and march a victim three times around fresh crops for luck
while all the others celebrate, a band of allies in support.
Let them implore her loudly to come and rest with them,
but stay the hand of anyone who’d lay a sickle to a single ear of corn
who has not wreathed his head with oak leaves in her honour
and made up dances and sung hymns to her.
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And so that we might be prepared to read unerring clues—
anticipate heatwaves and showers and winds precipitating cold—
he himself, the Father, decreed what each moon phase
would mean, the sign by which south winds subside,
what always indicates that farmers keep their teams in stalls
and near to hand. The minute winds begin to swell
and seas to surge, a brattling sound
starts up in the mountains, chaotic noises echo
far along the coast, and murmurs in woodlands increase.
Then the waves are in no mood to bear a ship
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and cormorants dash back from sea and bring their throaty roars
to the shore; waterhens more used to waterways
play on dry land—a sign for herons to forsake
the marshes and weave their way high in the sky.
And you can readily predict impending gales
by shooting stars that blaze their way through the night sky
and leave a white trail printed there.
You’ll see airy chaff and fallen leaves afloat on waves,
down and feathers fluttering there.
But then, when from the quarters of the north wind lightning flashes
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and from the home place of the east and west winds thunder rumbles,
the countryside’s awash with the overwhelm of ditches
and seafarers furl their soaking sails.
A spill of rain should never catch you unawares,
for either you’ll have seen soaring cranes seek protection in the bottoms,
a heifer face the sky suspiciously and work its nose to sniff the wind,
sweet-singing swallows circle round a lake,
or heard the frogs stuck in the mud and croaking their old grumpy sounds.
More often you’ll see ants transporting eggs along a narrow, well-worn way
from their safest shelter, or a mighty rainbow bending down
to take a drink, or as they evacuate their feeding grounds
a cavalcade of squawky rooks.
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Next, a host of seabirds and those contented rummaging
in grassland swamps of Asia Minor or pools along the river Cayster
mimic each other by splashing spray onto their upper bodies,
now plunging head first into waves,
now spurting underwater,
so that you’d think they’re revelling in the ordinary routines of washing.
Then a crow, strutting the deserted shore,
proclaims in its mean caw, Rain, rain, and then more rain.
In truth, even in the dark of night, young women busy carding wool
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can foretell a storm’s approach: they notice in their lighted lamps
a sputtering, and watch spent wicks begin to clot and harden.
And it’s as easy to predict sunny days and stretches of clear weather
in the wake of heavy showers if you’re attentive to the signs.
For the points of stars won’t then appear blunted
nor the moon’s own beams rise up as though it borrowed light from her kin
nor clouds like wispy fleeces be borne across the heavens.
Along the strand, kingfishers—favourites of the sea-nymph, Thetis—
won’t extend their wings in the warm sun
nor filthy lazing swine think of tossing with their snouts the bedding in their sties.
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Instead, the clouds determine to hang heavy on the lowlands,
while, at sunfall, night’s silent raptor watches from above
and wastes its time hooting charms and hexes.
High in the skies Nisus comes into view, a sparrowhawk,
and Scylla pays the price for that lock of reddish hair she stole.*
Whenever she goes flying by, splitting the heavens,
there he’ll be, her father and her mortal foe, spitting screeches
and in hot pursuit; yes, where Nisus takes himself up and away
there she’ll ever be, slicing heaven with her wings and cutting it to pieces.
Then ravens strain their voices to pour forth their one pure note, three times or four,
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and, perched high on their roosts, croak from their green shade
in ways that we don’t understand but with better than their customary cheer.
How it seems to lift their hearts, when a rain belt’s hurried overhead,
to turn back to their new-hatched brood and their beloved nestlings.
Not that I accept, however hard I try, that they’ve the slightest talent given them by god
nor that fate bestowed on them any shred of ancient lore.
And yet—where there are changes in the weather and shifts in atmosphere—
Jupiter, the god of sky, with sodden southern winds condenses
all that had been airy and rarefies what had been so oppressive.
Then they have a change of heart and give themselves to different feelings,
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different from when gusts were shaking up the clouds—
and that’s the cause, across the country,
of concord among birds,
of livestock lying down in peace and ravens crying out their hallelujahs.
It’s true—you keep your eye on the fleet-footed sun
and any run of moons, and dawn won’t take you by surprise,
nor tricks of cloudless night catch you off guard.
For when the moon collects herself in brimming fires,
if she is cradling an amorphous shape and sheen you have ‘earthshine’
and spills of rain are on the way to those who hoe the fields and row the waves.
But if she blushes like a maiden there’ll be a breeze;
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the advent of the wind precipitates a flush on the fresh face of the moon.
And if, on her fourth morning (that most reliable of all),
she sallies through an open sky, her horns unblurred,
all that day long, and all the days that stem from it
until month’s end, you needn’t fret yourself about wind or rain,
and sailors standing safe ashore may count their blessings
and give thanks to those sea-deities, Glaucus, Panopea, and Ino’s son, Melicertes.*
And the sun itself, on its way up or sliding down below the waves,
offers signs—none more deserving of our heed than those attached to it
as it rises in the morning or as it meets the winking stars.
If he appears at dawn all stained with spots
or hides in clouds the middle of his face
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watch out for heavy showers: there’ll be a south wind pounding from on high
that is no friend to trees or crops or cattle.
But if he comes pushing through thick clouds in all directions
like bright spokes of a section of a wheel
or if the goddess of the dawn rises wanly from her consort’s saffron couch
beware: there’s nothing you can do for them, your ripe shoots of vines,
such heavy hail will bounce and clatter on your roof.
This, too, when he’s passed through and is retiring to the heavens,
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you’ll do well to remember, for often we’ll observe odd colours
stray across his countenance—dark blues declare
that there’ll be rains, wh
ile tints of fire forecast hasky winds.
But if those hues begin to blend with glowing red
look out for gales and stormy clouds together.
On such a night, spare me the thought that anyone would contemplate
that he’d set sail or as much as touch the tie rope of his boat.
But if, when he presents the day and then retracts it,
his face is just as clear both times, your storm fears
are a thing of nothing, and you’ll see trees tilting in a gentle northerly.
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In short, whatever evening’s bringing on, whence winds propel
fair-weather clouds, and what wet southerlies portend,
the sun will advance warning signs. Who’d dare to question
the sun’s word? For it is he, once more, who forestalls troubles,
hidden but at hand, of conflicts festering out of sight.
And it was he who felt for Rome that time that Caesar fell*
and veiled his gleaming head in gloom
so dark the infidels began to fear that night would last for ever;
although, in that catastrophe, the earth itself and stretches of the sea,
unruly hounds, and bad-natured birds, sounded their predictions too.
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How frequently we’ve watched eruptions of Mount Etna
and the expulsions from her furnaces spill on the one-eyed giants’ lands
fireballs and molten lava.
The skies of Germany resounded with the din of war,
weird stirrings caused the Alps to tremble.
What’s more, in quiet groves a voice was heard by many peoples,
a monstrous voice, and pallid spectres loomed
through the dead of night and—dare I say it? —
cattle spoke. The rivers ground to a halt, gaping holes appeared,
and in the sanctuary carved ivories began to weep the tears of mourning
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and bronzes to perspire. The Po, king river, swept away in raging rushes
across the open plains whole plantations, cattle and their stalls,
swept all away. That was a time
when entrails, carefully scrutinized, showed nothing but the worst
and wellsprings spouted blood all day
and hill towns howled all night with wolves.
And never was a time more streaks of lightning split a limpid sky—
nor dismal comets flared at such close intervals.
So was it any wonder that Philippi observed for the second time
the clash of Roman forces in a civil war,*
and gods above did not think it a shame that we, with our own blood,
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would once again enrich wide-spreading Emathia* and the plains below Haemus.*
Nothing surer than the time will come when, in those fields,
a farmer ploughing will unearth
rough and rusted javelins and hear his heavy hoe
echo on the sides of empty helmets and stare in open-eyed amazement
at the bones of heroes he’s just happened on.
O Romulus, god of our fathers, strength of our homes, our mother Vesta,
who watches over our Etruscan Tiber and the palaces of Rome,
stand back, don’t block the way of this young one who comes to save
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a world in ruins. More than enough, and long ago, we paid in blood
for the lies Laomedon told at Troy.* Long, long ago since heaven’s royal estate
begrudged you first your place among us, Caesar,
grumbling of your empathies with the cares of men and the victories they earn.
For right and wrong are mixed up here, there’s so much warring everywhere,
evil has so many faces, and there is no regard for the labours
of the plough. Bereft of farmers, fields have run to a riot of weeds.
Scythes and sickles have been hammered into weapons of war.
Look here, the east is up in arms; look there, hostilities in Germany.
Neighbouring cities renege on what they pledged and launch attacks—
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the whole world’s at loggerheads, a blasphemous battle,
as when, right from the ready, steady, go, chariots quicken on a track
until the driver hasn’t a hope of holding the reins and he’s carried away
by a team that pays heed to nothing, wildly away and no control.*
BOOK TWO
Thus far I have been singing of working the land, and stars in heaven.
So now I turn to you, Bacchus, you and the thick thickets people think of when they think of you,
and, while I’m at it, to what the slow-growing olive gives.
Be with me now, O Patron of the vine, here where your copious gifts abound,
where by your grace, in every autumn, the country swells with your full flower
and the vintage foams to overflow the vats.
Be with me now, O Patron of the vine, tear off your buskins
and come paddling with me in this season’s musty dye!
Lesson one. The ways to propagate a tree are many.
Some take root on their own, with no one’s help,
and put themselves about the place, throughout the plains,
by river bends—the supple willow and the bendy broom,
poplars, and a copse of sallies with their silver undersides.
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But others spring from seeds they’ve dropped, such as the chestnut,
or that oak whose greenery adorns the groves of Jupiter,*
and the other one* that Greeks believe can tell what is to come.
And others still whose undergrowth shoots up along the root,
the cherry and the elm, while laurels of Parnassus,*
seedlings still, shelter in their mother’s shade.
These methods were first Nature’s way for each and every tree
in woods and sacred groves to thrive and flourish.
Now there are other ways, found out by trial and error.
Some have taken slips from the parent tree’s tender trunk
and landed them in trenches; some planted cuttings in a field,
their ends divided into quarters, held up by hardwood stakes.
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And there are others, forest trees, which call for layering
to come into their own at home in soil they’re used to;
and others still which have no need for roots, and he who prunes them
doesn’t have to wonder as he entrusts back to the ground a cutting
from the upper branches. Why, even when you’ve chopped an olive tree—
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can you believe it?—buds burgeon from its seasoned stump.
How often have we seen the bough of one tree turned into another,
and none the worse for wear—the pear transformed to issue apples,
the plum branch blushing with its stonehard cherries?
So, come on, countrymen, and learn the character of every species,
make wild fruits sweeter through your care, and let no land lie waste.
What could proffer more reward than setting vines across the slopes of Ismarus