FRUIT OF OLD.
51
Rough butcher-broom as well you must provide,
And osiers wild, and flags from river side. 495
Now vines are tied, the hook may now repose,
The tired swain sings the finish of his rows.
Still must we vex the earth, and stir the clod,
And ripening grapes must fear the Weather-god.
But olive-trees, unlike the vineyard, look 500
For culture none, nor sweep of pruning-hook,
Nor clogging harrows lack, when, rooted fast,
They once have hugg'd the soil, and borne the blast.
For them the earth, when once unclotted loose
With talon'd fork, vouchsafes spontaneous juice,
And quicken'd by the share gives large increase;
Then nurse the olive, the calm bride of peace.
Fruit-trees, moreover, soon as they have known
The vigour of the stock become their own,
Push jostling upward by their native powers, 510
To starry heaven, and ask no aid of ours.
And so the forest bends its fruitful head,
And wild bird-mansions blush with berries red.
Then clover-shrubs are mown that flocks may share;
The deep wood ministers its fuel, so 515
And osiers wild, and flags from river side. 495
Now vines are tied, the hook may now repose,
The tired swain sings the finish of his rows.
Still must we vex the earth, and stir the clod,
And ripening grapes must fear the Weather-god.
But olive-trees, unlike the vineyard, look 500
For culture none, nor sweep of pruning-hook,
Nor clogging harrows lack, when, rooted fast,
They once have hugg'd the soil, and borne the blast.
For them the earth, when once unclotted loose
With talon'd fork, vouchsafes spontaneous juice,
And quicken'd by the share gives large increase;
Then nurse the olive, the calm bride of peace.
Fruit-trees, moreover, soon as they have known
The vigour of the stock become their own,
Push jostling upward by their native powers, 510
To starry heaven, and ask no aid of ours.
And so the forest bends its fruitful head,
And wild bird-mansions blush with berries red.
Then clover-shrubs are mown that flocks may share;
The deep wood ministers its fuel, so 515
