But those, whose vigilance no care escapes, Search for a kindred site, where first to rear A nursery for the trees, and eke whereto Soon to translate them, lest the sudden shock From their new mother the young plants estrange. Nay, even the quarter of the sky they brand Upon the bark, that each may be restored, As erst it stood, here bore the southern heats, Here turned its shoulder to the northern pole; So strong is custom formed in early years. Whether on hill or plain 'tis best to plant Your vineyard first inquire. If on some plain You measure out rich acres, then plant thick; Thick planting makes no niggard of the vine; But if on rising mound or sloping bill, Then let the rows have room, so none the less Each line you draw, when all the trees are set, May tally to perfection. Even as oft In mighty war, whenas the legion's length Deploys its cohorts, and the column stands In open plain, the ranks of battle set, And far and near with rippling sheen of arms The wide earth flickers, nor yet in grisly strife Foe grapples foe, but dubious 'twixt the hosts The war-god wavers; so let all be ranged In equal rows symmetric, not alone To feed an idle fancy with the view, But since not otherwise will earth afford Vigour to all alike, nor yet the boughs Have power to stretch them into open space. Shouldst haply of the furrow's depth inquire, Even to a shallow trench I dare commit The vine; but deeper in the ground is fixed The tree that props it, aesculus in chief, Which howso far its summit soars toward heaven, So deep strikes root into the vaults of hell. It therefore neither storms, nor blasts, nor showers Wrench from its bed; unshaken it abides, Sees many a generation, many an age Of men roll onward, and survives them all, Stretching its titan arms and branches far, Sole central pillar of a world of shade. Nor toward the sunset let thy vineyards slope, Nor midst the vines plant hazel; neither take The topmost shoots for cuttings, nor from the top Of the supporting tree your suckers tear; So deep their love of earth; nor wound the plants With blunted blade; nor truncheons intersperse Of the wild olive: for oft from careless swains A spark hath fallen, that, 'neath the unctuous rind Hid thief-like first, now grips the tough tree-bole, And mounting to the leaves on high, sends forth A roar to heaven, then coursing through the boughs And airy summits reigns victoriously, Wraps all the grove in robes of fire, and gross With pitch-black vapour heaves the murky reek Skyward, but chiefly if a storm has swooped Down on the forest, and a driving wind Rolls up the conflagration. When 'tis so, Their root-force fails them, nor, when lopped away, Can they recover, and from the earth beneath Spring to like verdure; thus alone survives The bare wild olive with its bitter leaves. Let none persuade thee, howso weighty-wise, To stir the soil when stiff with Boreas' breath. Then ice-bound winter locks the fields, nor lets