Fit for the figure of the crooked plough. Of eight foot long a fastened beam prepare: } On either side the head, produce an ear; } And sink a socket for the shining share. } Of beech the plough-tail, and the bending yoke, Or softer linden hardened in the smoke. I could be long in precepts; but I fear So mean a subject might offend your ear. Delve of convenient depth your thrashing floor: With tempered clay then fill and face it o'er; And let the weighty roller run the round, To smooth the surface of the unequal ground; Lest, cracked with summer heats, the flooring flies, Or sinks, and through the crannies weeds arise: For sundry foes the rural realm surround: The field-mouse builds her garner under ground For gathered grain: the blind laborious mole In winding mazes works her hidden hole: In hollow caverns vermin make abode-- The hissing serpent, and the swelling toad: The corn-devouring weasel here abides, And the wise ant her wintery store provides. Mark well the flowering almonds in the wood: If odorous blooms the bearing branches load, The glebe will answer to the sylvan reign; Great heats will follow, and large crops of grain. But, if a wood of leaves o'ershade the tree, Such and so barren will thy harvest be: In vain the hind shall vex the thrashing-floor; For empty chaff and straw will be thy store. Some steep their seed, and some in cauldrons boil, With vigorous nitre and with lees of oil, O'er gentle fires, the exuberant juice to drain, And swell the flattering husks with fruitful grain. Yet is not the success for years assured, Though chosen is the seed, and fully cured, Unless the peasant, with his annual pain, Renews his choice, and culls the largest grain. Thus all below, whether by Nature's curse, Or Fate's decree, degenerate still to worse. So the boat's brawny crew the current stem, And, slow advancing, struggle with the stream: But, if they slack their hands, or cease to strive, Then down the flood with headlong haste they drive. Nor must the ploughman less observe the skies, When the Kids, Dragon, and Arcturus, rise, Than sailors homeward bent, who cut their way Through Helle's stormy straits, and oyster-breeding sea. But, when Astræa's balance, hung on high, Betwixt the nights and days divides the sky, Then yoke your oxen, sow your winter grain, Till cold December comes with driving rain. Linseed and fruitful poppy bury warm, In a dry season, and prevent the storm. Sow beans and clover in a rotten soil, And millet rising from your annual toil, When with his golden horns, in full career, } The Bull beats down the barriers of the year, } And Argo[7] and the Dog forsake the northern sphere. } But, if your care to wheat alone extend, } Let Maia with her sisters first descend, }