For thee my tuneful accents will I raise, And treat of arts disclosed in ancient days, Once more unlock for thee the sacred spring, And old Ascræan verse in Roman cities sing. The nature of the several soils now see, Their strength, their colour, their fertility: And first for heath, and barren hilly ground, Where meagre clay and flinty stones abound, Where the poor soil all succour seems to want-- Yet this suffices the Palladian plant. Undoubted signs of such a soil are found; } For here wild olive-shoots o'erspread the ground, } And heaps of berries strew the fields around. } But, where the soil, with fattening moisture filled, Is clothed with grass, and fruitful to be tilled, Such as in cheerful vales we view from high, Which dripping rocks with rolling streams supply, And feed with ooze; where rising hillocks run In length, and open to the southern sun; Where fern succeeds, ungrateful to the plough-- That gentle ground to generous grapes allow. Strong stocks of vines it will in time produce, And overflow the vats with friendly juice, Such as our priests in golden goblets pour To gods, the givers of the cheerful hour, Then when the bloated Tuscan blows his horn, And reeking entrails are in chargers borne. If herds or fleecy flocks be more thy care, Or goats that graze the field, and burn it bare, Then seek Tarentum's lawns, and farthest coast, Or such a field as hapless Mantua lost, Where silver swans sail down the watery road, And graze the floating herbage of the flood. There crystal streams perpetual tenor keep, Nor food nor springs are wanting to thy sheep; For, what the day devours, the nightly dew Shall to the morn in pearly drops renew. Fat crumbling earth is fitter for the plough, Putrid and loose above, and black below; For ploughing is an imitative toil, Resembling nature in an easy soil. No land for seed like this; no fields afford So large an income to the village lord: No toiling teams from harvest-labour come So late at night, so heavy-laden home. The like of forest land is understood, } From whence the surly ploughman grubs the wood, } Which had for length of ages idle stood. } Then birds forsake the ruins of their seat, And, flying from their nests, their callow young forget. The coarse lean gravel, on the mountain-sides, Scarce dewy beverage for the bees provides; Nor chalk nor crumbling stones, the food of snakes, That work in hollow earth their winding tracks. The soil exhaling clouds of subtile dews, Imbibing moisture which with ease she spews, Which rusts not iron, and whose mould is clean, Well clothed with cheerful grass, and ever green, Is good for olives, and aspiring vines, Embracing husband elms in amorous twines; Is fit for feeding cattle, fit to sow, And equal to the pasture and the plough.