Chuse next a province for thy vineyard's reign, On hills above, or in the lowly plain. If fertile fields or valleys be thy choice, Plant thick; for bounteous Bacchus will rejoice In close plantations there; but, if the vine On rising ground be placed, or hills supine, Extend thy loose battalions largely wide, Opening thy ranks and files on either side, But marshalled all in order as they stand; And let no soldier straggle from his band. As legions in the field their front display, To try the fortune of some doubtful day, And move to meet their foes with sober pace, Strict to their figure, though in wider space, Before the battle joins, while from afar The field yet glitters with the pomp of war, And equal Mars, like an impartial lord, Leaves all to fortune, and the dint of sword-- So let thy vines in intervals be set, But not their rural discipline forget; Indulge their width, and add a roomy space, That their extremest lines may scarce embrace; Nor this alone to indulge a vain delight, And make a pleasing prospect for the sight; But, for the ground itself, this only way } Can equal vigour to the plants convey, } Which, crowded, want the room, their branches to display. } How deep they must be planted, would'st thou know? In shallow furrows vines securely grow. Not so the rest of plants; for Jove's own tree, That holds the woods in awful sovereignty, Requires a depth of lodging in the ground, And, next the lower skies, a bed profound: High as his topmost boughs to heaven ascend, So low his roots to hell's dominion tend. Therefore, nor winds, nor winter's rage o'erthrows His bulky body, but unmoved he grows; For length of ages lasts his happy reign, And lives of mortal man contend in vain. Full in the midst of his own strength he stands, } Stretching his brawny arms, and leafy hands; } His shade protects the plains, his head the hills commands. } The hurtful hazel in thy vineyard shun; Nor plant it to receive the setting sun; Nor break the topmost branches from the tree; Nor prune, with blunted knife, the progeny. Root up wild olives from thy laboured lands; For sparkling fire, from hinds' unwary hands, Is often scattered o'er their unctuous rinds, And after spread abroad by raging winds: For first the smouldering flame the trunk receives; Ascending thence, it crackles in the leaves; At length victorious to the top aspires, Involving all the wood in smoky fires; But most, when, driven by winds, the flaming storm Of the long files destroys the beauteous form. In ashes then the unhappy vineyard lies; Nor will the blasted plants from ruin rise; Nor will the withered stock be green again; But the wild olive shoots, and shades the ungrateful plain. Be not seduced with wisdom's empty shows, To stir the peaceful ground when Boreas blows.