What harvest down below, or vineyard green? There Cerberus howls, and o'er the Stygian flood The dark ship goes; while on the clouded shore With hollow cheek and tresses lustreless, Wanders the ghostly throng. O happier far Some white-haired sire, among his children dear, Beneath a lowly thatch! His sturdy son Shepherds the young rams; he, his gentle ewes; And oft at eve, his willing labor done, His careful wife his weary limbs will bathe From a full, steaming bowl. Such lot be mine! So let this head grow gray, while I shall tell, Repeating oft, the deeds of long ago! Then may long Peace my country's harvests bless! Till then, let Peace on all our fields abide! Bright-vestured Peace, who first beneath their yoke Led oxen in the plough, who first the vine Did nourish tenderly, and chose good grapes, That rare old wine may pass from sire to son! Peace! who doth keep the plow and harrow bright, While rust on some forgotten shelf devours The cruel soldier's useless sword and shield. From peaceful holiday with mirth and wine The rustic, not half sober, driveth home With wife and weans upon the lumbering wain. But wars by Venus kindled ne'er have done; The vanquished lass, with tresses rudely torn, Of doors broke down, and smitten cheek complains; And he, her victor-lover, weeps to see How strong were his wild hands. But mocking Love Teaches more angry words, and while they rave, Sits with a smile between! O heart of stone! O iron heart! that could thy sweetheart strike! Ye gods avenge her! Is it not enough To tear her soft robe from her limbs away, And loose her knotted hair?--Enough, indeed, To move her tears! Thrice happy is the wight Whose frown some lovely mistress weeps to see! But he who gives her blows!--Go, let him bear A sword and spear! In exile let him be From Venus' mild domain! Come blessed Peace! Come, holding forth thy blade of ripened corn! Fill thy large lap with mellow fruits and fair! BOOK II ELEGY THE FIRST A RUSTIC HOLIDAY Give us good omen, friends! To-day we bless With hallowed rites this dear, ancestral seat. Let Bacchus his twin horns with clusters dress, And Ceres clasp her brows with bursting wheat! To-day no furrows! Both for field and man Be sacred rest from delving toil and care! With necks yoke-free, at mangers full of bran, The tranquil steers shall nought but garlands bear. Our tasks to-day are heaven's. No maid shall dare Upon a distaff her deft hands employ. Let none, too rash, our simple worship share, Who wrought last eve at Venus' fleeting joy! The gods claim chastity. Come clad in white, And lave your palms at some clear fountain's brim! Then watch the mild lamb at the altar bright, Yon olive-cinctured choir close-following him!