For thrice, at least, in compass of the year, Thy vineyard must employ the sturdy steer To turn the glebe, besides thy daily pain To break the clods, and make the surface plain, To unload the branches, or the leaves to thin, That suck the vital moisture of the vine. Thus in a circle runs the peasant's pain, And the year rolls within itself again. Even in the lowest months, when storms have shed From vines the hairy honours of their head, Not then the drudging hind his labour ends, But to the coming year his care extends. Even then the naked vine he persecutes; His pruning knife at once reforms and cuts. Be first to dig the ground; be first to burn The branches lopt; and first the props return Into thy house, that bore the burdened vines; But last to reap the vintage of thy wines. Twice in the year luxuriant leaves o'ershade The encumbered vine; rough brambles twice invade: Hard laboured both! Commend the large excess Of spacious vineyards; cultivate the less. Besides, in woods the shrubs of prickly thorn, Sallows and reeds on banks of rivers born, Remain to cut; for vineyards useful found, } To stay thy vines, and fence thy fruitful ground. } Nay,[12] when thy tender trees at length are bound, } When peaceful vines from pruning-hooks are free, } When husbands have surveyed the last degree, } And utmost files of plants, and ordered every tree; } Even when they sing at ease in full content, Insulting o'er the toils they underwent, Yet still they find a future task remain, To turn the soil, and break the clods again; And, after all, their joys are unsincere, While falling rains on ripening grapes they fear. Quite opposite to these are olives found: No dressing they require, and dread no wound, Nor rakes nor harrows need; but, fixed below, Rejoice in open air, and unconcernedly grow. The soil itself due nourishment supplies: Plough but the furrows, and the fruits arise, Content with small endeavours, till they spring. } Soft peace they figure, and sweet plenty bring; } Then olives plant, and hymns to Pallas sing. } Thus apple-trees, whose trunks are strong to bear Their spreading boughs, exert themselves in air, Want no supply, but stand secure alone, } Not trusting foreign forces, but their own, } Till with the ruddy freight the bending branches groan. } Thus trees of nature, and each common bush, Uncultivated thrive, and with red berries blush. Vile shrubs are shorn for browze; the towering height Of unctuous trees are torches for the night. And shall we doubt, (indulging easy sloth,) To sow, to set, and to reform their growth? To leave the lofty plants--the lowly kind Are for the shepherd or the sheep designed. Even humble broom and osiers have their use,