And the bright Gnossian diadem downward bend, } Before you trust in earth your future hope; Or else expect a listless lazy crop. Some swains have sown before; but most have found A husky harvest from the grudging ground. Vile vetches would you sow, or lentils lean, The growth of Egypt, or the kidney-bean? Begin when the slow waggoner descends; Nor cease your sowing till mid-winter ends. For this, through twelve bright signs Apollo guides The year, and earth in several climes divides. Five girdles bind the skies: the torrid zone Glows with the passing and repassing sun: Far on the right and left, the extremes of heaven To frosts and snows and bitter blasts are given: Betwixt the midst and these, the gods assigned Two habitable seats for human kind, And, 'cross their limits, cut a sloping way, Which the twelve signs in beauteous order sway. Two poles turn round the globe; one seen to rise O'er Scythian hills, and one in Libyan skies; The first sublime in heaven, the last is whirled Below the regions of the nether world. Around our pole the spiry Dragon glides, And, like a winding stream, the Bears divides-- The less and greater, who, by Fate's decree, Abhor to dive beneath the northern sea.[8] There, as they say, perpetual night is found In silence brooding on the unhappy ground: Or, when Aurora leaves our northern sphere, She lights the downward heaven, and rises there; And, when on us she breathes the living light, Red Vesper kindles there the tapers of the night. From hence uncertain seasons we may know, And when to reap the grain, and when to sow; Or when to fell the furzes; when 'tis meet To spread the flying canvas for the fleet. Observe what stars arise, or disappear; And the four quarters of the rolling year. But, when cold weather and continued rain The labouring husband in his house restrain, Let him forecast his work with timely care, } Which else is huddled, when the skies are fair: } Then let him mark the sheep, or whet the shining share, } Or hollow trees for boats, or number o'er His sacks, or measure his increasing store, Or sharpen stakes, or head the forks, or twine The sallow twigs to tie the straggling vine; Or wicker baskets weave, or air the corn, Or grinded grain betwixt two marbles turn. No laws, divine or human, can restrain From necessary works the labouring swain. Even holidays and feasts permission yield To float the meadows, or to fence the field, To fire the brambles, snare the birds, and steep In wholesome water-falls the woolly sheep. And oft the drudging ass is driven, with toil, To neighbouring towns with apples and with oil; Returning, late and loaden, home with gain Of bartered pitch, and hand-mills for the grain. The lucky days, in each revolving moon, For labour chuse: the fifth be sure to shun; That gave the Furies and pale Pluto birth,