The Georgics [English] | Page 9

preludings?Shall I detain thee.
Those that lift their head?Into the realms of light spontaneously,?Fruitless indeed, but blithe and strenuous spring,?Since Nature lurks within the soil. And yet?Even these, should one engraft them, or transplant?To well-drilled trenches, will anon put of?Their woodland temper, and, by frequent tilth,?To whatso craft thou summon them, make speed?To follow. So likewise will the barren shaft?That from the stock-root issueth, if it be?Set out with clear space amid open fields:?Now the tree-mother's towering leaves and boughs?Darken, despoil of increase as it grows,?And blast it in the bearing. Lastly, that?Which from shed seed ariseth, upward wins?But slowly, yielding promise of its shade?To late-born generations; apples wane?Forgetful of their former juice, the grape?Bears sorry clusters, for the birds a prey.?Soothly on all must toil be spent, and all?Trained to the trench and at great cost subdued.?But reared from truncheons olives answer best,?As vines from layers, and from the solid wood?The Paphian myrtles; while from suckers spring?Both hardy hazels and huge ash, the tree?That rims with shade the brows of Hercules,?And acorns dear to the Chaonian sire:?So springs the towering palm too, and the fir?Destined to spy the dangers of the deep.?But the rough arbutus with walnut-fruit?Is grafted; so have barren planes ere now?Stout apples borne, with chestnut-flower the beech,?The mountain-ash with pear-bloom whitened o'er,?And swine crunched acorns 'neath the boughs of elms.?Nor is the method of inserting eyes?And grafting one: for where the buds push forth?Amidst the bark, and burst the membranes thin,?Even on the knot a narrow rift is made,?Wherein from some strange tree a germ they pen,?And to the moist rind bid it cleave and grow.?Or, otherwise, in knotless trunks is hewn?A breach, and deep into the solid grain?A path with wedges cloven; then fruitful slips?Are set herein, and- no long time- behold!?To heaven upshot with teeming boughs, the tree?Strange leaves admires and fruitage not its own.?Nor of one kind alone are sturdy elms,?Willow and lotus, nor the cypress-trees?Of Ida; nor of self-same fashion spring?Fat olives, orchades, and radii?And bitter-berried pausians, no, nor yet?Apples and the forests of Alcinous;?Nor from like cuttings are Crustumian pears?And Syrian, and the heavy hand-fillers.?Not the same vintage from our trees hangs down,?Which Lesbos from Methymna's tendril plucks.?Vines Thasian are there, Mareotids white,?These apt for richer soils, for lighter those:?Psithian for raisin-wine more useful, thin?Lageos, that one day will try the feet?And tie the tongue: purples and early-ripes,?And how, O Rhaetian, shall I hymn thy praise??Yet cope not therefore with Falernian bins.?Vines Aminaean too, best-bodied wine,?To which the Tmolian bows him, ay, and king?Phanaeus too, and, lesser of that name,?Argitis, wherewith not a grape can vie?For gush of wine-juice or for length of years.?Nor thee must I pass over, vine of Rhodes,?Welcomed by gods and at the second board,?Nor thee, Bumastus, with plump clusters swollen.?But lo! how many kinds, and what their names,?There is no telling, nor doth it boot to tell;?Who lists to know it, he too would list to learn?How many sand-grains are by Zephyr tossed?On Libya's plain, or wot, when Eurus falls?With fury on the ships, how many waves?Come rolling shoreward from the Ionian sea.?Not that all soils can all things bear alike.?Willows by water-courses have their birth,?Alders in miry fens; on rocky heights?The barren mountain-ashes; on the shore?Myrtles throng gayest; Bacchus, lastly, loves?The bare hillside, and yews the north wind's chill.?Mark too the earth by outland tillers tamed,?And Eastern homes of Arabs, and tattooed?Geloni; to all trees their native lands?Allotted are; no clime but India bears?Black ebony; the branch of frankincense?Is Saba's sons' alone; why tell to thee?Of balsams oozing from the perfumed wood,?Or berries of acanthus ever green??Of Aethiop forests hoar with downy wool,?Or how the Seres comb from off the leaves?Their silky fleece? Of groves which India bears,?Ocean's near neighbour, earth's remotest nook,?Where not an arrow-shot can cleave the air?Above their tree-tops? yet no laggards they,?When girded with the quiver! Media yields?The bitter juices and slow-lingering taste?Of the blest citron-fruit, than which no aid?Comes timelier, when fierce step-dames drug the cup?With simples mixed and spells of baneful power,?To drive the deadly poison from the limbs.?Large the tree's self in semblance like a bay,?And, showered it not a different scent abroad,?A bay it had been; for no wind of heaven?Its foliage falls; the flower, none faster, clings;?With it the Medes for sweetness lave the lips,?And ease the panting breathlessness of age.?But no, not Mede-land with its wealth of woods,?Nor Ganges fair, and Hermus thick with gold,?Can match the praise of Italy; nor Ind,?Nor Bactria, nor Panchaia, one wide tract?Of incense-teeming sand. Here never bulls?With nostrils snorting fire upturned the sod?Sown with the monstrous dragon's teeth, nor crop?Of warriors bristled thick with lance and helm;?But heavy harvests and the Massic juice?Of Bacchus fill its borders, overspread?With fruitful flocks and olives. Hence arose?The war-horse stepping proudly o'er the plain;?Hence