_The subject of the following book is planting: in handling of which argument, the poet shews all the different methods of raising trees describes their variety, and gives rules for the management of each in particular. He then points out the soils in which the several plants thrive best, and thence takes occasion to run out into the praises of Italy: after which, he gives some directions for discovering the nature of every soil, prescribes rules for dressing of vines, olives, &c. and concludes the Georgic with a panegyric on a country life_.[11] Thus far of tillage, and of heavenly signs: Now sing, my Muse, the growth of generous vines, The shady groves, the woodland progeny, And the slow product of Minerva's tree. Great father Bacchus! to my song repair; For clustering grapes are thy peculiar care: For thee, large bunches load the bending vine, And the last blessings of the year are thine. To thee his joys the jolly autumn owes, When the fermenting juice the vat o'erflows. Come, strip with me, my god! come drench all o'er Thy limbs in must of wine, and drink at every pore. Some trees their birth to bounteous Nature owe; For some, without the pains of planting, grow. With osiers thus the banks of brooks abound, Sprung from the watery genius of the ground. From the same principles grey willows come, Herculean poplar, and the tender broom. But some, from seeds inclosed in earth, arise; For thus the mastful chesnut mates the skies. Hence rise the branching beech and vocal oak, Where Jove of old oraculously spoke. Some from the root a rising wood disclose: Thus elms, and thus the savage cherry grows: Thus the green bay, that binds the poet's brows, Shoots, and is sheltered by the mother's boughs. These ways of planting Nature did ordain, For trees and shrubs, and all the sylvan reign. Others there are, by late experience found: Some cut the shoots, and plant in furrowed ground; Some cover rooted stalks in deeper mould; Some, cloven stakes; and (wonderous to behold!) Their sharpened ends in earth their footing place; And the dry poles produce a living race. Some bow their vines, which buried in the plain, Their tops in distant arches rise again. Others no root require; the labourer cuts Young slips, and in the soil securely puts. Even stumps of olives, bared of leaves, and dead, Revive, and oft redeem their withered head. 'Tis usual now an inmate graff to see With insolence invade a foreign tree: Thus pears and quinces from the crabtree come, And thus the ruddy cornel bears the plum. Then let the learned gardener mark with care The kinds of stocks, and what those kinds will bear; Explore the nature of each several tree, And, known, improve with artful industry: And let no spot of idle earth be found, But cultivate the genius of the ground: For open Ismarus will Bacchus please; Taburnus loves the shade of olive-trees.