Betwixt thy vines, and teach the feeble row To mount on reeds, and wands, and, upward led, On ashen poles to raise their forky head. On these new crutches let them learn to walk, Till, swerving upwards with a stronger stalk, They brave the winds, and, clinging to their guide, On tops of elms at length triumphant ride. But, in their tender nonage, while they spread Their springing leaves, and lift their infant head, And upward while they shoot in open air, Indulge their childhood, and the nurselings spare; Nor exercise thy rage on new-born life; But let thy hand supply the pruning-knife, And crop luxuriant stragglers, nor be loth To strip the branches of their leafy growth. But, when the rooted vines, with steady hold, Can clasp their elms, then, husbandman, be bold To lop the disobedient boughs, that strayed Beyond their ranks; let crooked steel invade The lawless troops, which discipline disclaim, And their superfluous growth with rigour tame. Next, fenced with hedges and deep ditches round, Exclude the encroaching cattle from thy ground, While yet the tender gems but just appear, Unable to sustain the uncertain year; Whose leaves are not alone foul winter's prey, But oft by summer suns are scorched away, And, worse than both, become the unworthy browze } Of buffaloes, salt goats, and hungry cows. } For not December's frost, that burns the boughs, } Nor dog-days' parching heat, that splits the rocks, } Are half so harmful as the greedy flocks, } Their venomed bite, and scars indented on the stocks. } For this, the malefactor goat was laid On Bacchus' altar, and his forfeit paid. At Athens thus old comedy began, When round the streets the reeling actors ran, In country villages, and crossing ways, Contending for the prizes of their plays; And, glad with Bacchus, on the grassy soil, Leaped o'er the skins of goats besmeared with oil. Thus Roman youth, derived from ruined Troy, In rude Saturnian rhymes express their joy; With taunts, and laughter loud, their audience please, Deformed with vizards, cut from barks of trees: In jolly hymns they praise the god of wine, } Whose earthen images adorn the pine, } And there are hung on high, in honour of the vine. } A madness so devout the vineyard fills; In hollow valleys and on rising hills, On whate'er side he turns his honest face, And dances in the wind, those fields are in his grace. To Bacchus therefore let us tune our lays, And in our mother tongue resound his praise. Thin cakes in chargers, and a guilty goat, Dragged by the horns, be to his altars brought; Whose offered entrails shall his crime reproach, And drip their fatness from the hazel broach. To dress thy vines, new labour is required; Nor must the painful husbandman be tired: