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.If it’s a fertile plain you plan to set lay out your plants together.Close sowing won’t put brakes on Bacchus.lines 276–305Book Two37But if it’s land that rises up to touch the sky, or hills that reach into the distance,be generous with room between the rows.Make sure that they run paralleland still maintain right angles* with the boundary lines, the way in war you’d often see a legion massed in ranks, its cohorts standing –– and standing out –– on open ground, 280aligned and at the ready, the everywhere just like a glittering stretch of sea,and the flash of bronze, the clash of conflict still not started, though the god of war roams edgily, in and out among battalions.Let all the avenues be equal,not only so an idle eye might linger on the viewbut because no other method gets the earth to give in matching measuresand grants the boughs free rein and the run of air.And you’ll wonder maybe how far down to dig.I’d be happy, I believe, to set the vines in shallow trenches.But trees need to be driven deeper, and none more than 290the dun must oak which holds its head to heaven,with as much above the ground as its roots below delve into the pits of Tartarus.And so it can’t be overthrown by wintry weather, gusts of wind or spills of rains, as it stands undaunted, outlasting lives of sons and grandsons, a vanquisher of ages.Far and wide it spreads its sturdy boughs, its branches hanging, and in their midst its trunk, the mainstay of its massive shade.Whatever else you do, don’t have your vineyard face toward the setting sun;sow no hazels in the rows; don’t pinch the main part of the shoot, nor prune the topmost splays of trees ––300they love the earth so tenderly –– you mustn’t brush against a saplingeven with blunt instruments; don’t introduce wild olive stakes.For careless shepherds often cause a fire by letting fall a spark that smoulders unobserved beneath the oily barkand then runs riot among the leaves, racing38Book Twolines 306–332its rowdy roar as it chases sideways on and up,lording it over every branch and the tips of every trunk, enveloping the wood in flames and belching skywards clouds of soot-filled smoke, the more so if a gale spins through 310 the forest roof and winds rush in to fan the blaze.When the like of this occurs, plants give up the ghost.Burn grafted trees to the roots, and they’re left with nothing left to give,nothing their own.Cut to the quick, they’ll never send the same green shootsout from deep below the ground.Oleaster that’s all leaf and little fruit stands to triumph.Pay no heed to anyone, however well he’s versed in plant production,who tells you to begin to plough rock-solid land while north winds stillbare their teeth.When winter seals the countryside broadcast corn can’t get a foothold in the soil.It’s spring’s first flush that’s best for sowing vines, 320 when that bright bird returns, the bane of lanky snakes, or, if not then, the first cold snap of autumn, before the sun’s fiery steeds have touched on winter, although, in truth, the summer’s gone already.Spring it is, spring that’s good to the core of the wood, to the leaves of groves,spring that reawakens soil and coaxes seeds to fruitfulness.It’s then almighty father, Air, marries the earth*and penetrates her with prolific showers, and, their bodies joined as one, unbridles life’s potential.The woodlands off the beaten track reverberate with singing birdsand, right on time, cattle come into their season ––330 the countryside stands to deliver––and in the warmth of western breezesthe plains let down their very breasts; a gentle wash infuses everythingand new growth ventures to believe it’s safe beneath the young,lines 333–364Book Two39still unfamiliar sun, and vine shoots fear no southern gales nor roaring northerlies that scour rain clouds from the sky; rather, they prompt their buds to boldness and leaves to colour everywhere.That days were not that different at the dawning of the world I can easily believe, nor proceeded differently.Then it was spring, all basked in spring,and winter’s winds bit their tongue ––all this when livestock first unclosed their eyes340and man, begot of rocks, first held up his head,with creatures loosed to roam woodscape and stars to ramble skies.Indeed, how could such tender growth survive vicissitudes if there were not between the cold and warmth a spell of dreamlike quiet,when heaven’s kindness brought its gift of ease?What’s more, whenever you set down your slipsdon’t forget to land them well,or dig in around them bits of pervious stone and broken shells.It’s known well that waters will soak through themand their gentle vapours spread to pick the plants’ spirits up.350Men have experimented by laying slabs and broken tiles to offer them protection from the pouring rain or, even, on those daysthe Dog Star’s heat intensifies to parch and crack the soil.When you’ve your seedlings put to bed you’ve still to go over the ground,time and again, up to where the vine appears, scuffling soil with your clawed hoe, to plough the earth steadilyand steer your straining oxen up and down the vineyard rows.Then prepare the pliant reeds, whittled sticks and stakes of ash,the sturdy forked supports through whose assistance they can begin to climb fearless of wind360and fit themselves to the crowns of elms.And all the while they’re putting out their fragile leaves treat the shoots with gentlest care, and while their branches venture high, given free rein in the sky,40Book Twolines 365–394don’t even glance against them with the pruning hook’s keen edge ––no, use your fingertips to pluck this one here, and that one there.And in due course, when they’ve their arms around those trees (a strong embrace), it’s time to trim their tops, time to crop their branches (prior to this they’ll wilt before any iron implement),370 impose your will and curb their wayward leaders.There are hedges to be laid, to keep out each and any beast, especially when the leaves are delicate and unaccustomed to attack,winter’s cruelty or the worst extremes of summer,not to mention rampant buffalo and deer nibbling havoc there, or sheep and brawly heifers that eat their fill.No winter weather, its hardest frosts,nor summer’s heat that splits the stones,did hurt to them to equal herds and flocks,their toothmarks’ harm, the scars they’ve inscribed in the bark.380And they’re the why, such transgressions, a goat is sacrificed on every altar to the wine god –– since our elders started to stage playsand the sons of Theseus rewarded talent along the highways and the bywaysand, with drink taken, took to hopping here and there, a dance on greasy hides, and toppling in soft grass.So, too, Ausonian settlers –– who came from Troy ––recited their rough-hewn verse to entertain the masses, and put on scary masks cut out of barkand called on you, Bacchus, in rousing song,and in your honour dangled from the tips of pines tender tokens.*390 And it ensues that every vineyard crests and fills, valleys teem, and deep ravines ––anywhere the god took in with his goodly gaze.Therefore, as is only right, we accord to Bacchus due respect with songs our fathers sang and trays of baked offeringslines 395–417Book Two41and, led by the horn, the sacrificial puck is set before the altar and his spewling innards roasted on hazel skewers [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]