THE FIRST BOOK OF THE GEORGICS

What makes a plenteous harvest, when to turn
The fruitful soil, and when to sow the corn;
The care of sheep, of oxen, and of kine,
And how to raise on elms the teeming vine;
The birth and genius of the frugal bee,
I sing, Maecenas, and I sing to thee.
Ye deities, who fields and plains protect,
Who rule the seasons, and the year direct,
Bacchus and fost'ring Ceres, pow'rs divine,
Who gave us corn for mast, for water, wine;
Ye Fauns, propitious to the rural swains,

The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with gladness.
We both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of joy.
Her pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden trees.
If they stray into our barley field, I take them up in my arms.
The name of our village is Khanjana, and Anjana they call our river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjana.
Only one field lies between us.
Bees that have hived in our grove go to seek honey in theirs.

In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love who was mine in a former life.
Her house stood at the end of a desolate street.
In the evening breeze her pet peacock sat drowsing on its perch, and the pigeons were silent in their corner.
She set her lamp down by the portal and stood before me.
She raised her large eyes to my face and mutely asked, " Are you well, my friend?"
I tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten.
I thought and thought; our names would not come to my mind.

O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air —
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat —
plough through it,
turning it on either side

I.

A RISE , arise great Dead for Arms renown'd,
Rise from your Urns, and save your Dying story,
Your Deeds will be in Dark Oblivion Drown'd
For Mighty William Seizes all your Glory.

II.

Again the British Trumpet Sounds,
Again Britannia Bleeds;
To Glorious Death, or comely Wounds,
Her Godlike Monarch Leads.

III.

Pay us, kind Fate, the Debt you Owe,
Celestial Minds from Clay untye;
Let Coward Spirits dwell below,
And only give the Brave to Die.

I.

O N Yonder Bed supinely laid,
Behold thy Lov'd Expecting Maid:
In Tremor, Blushes, half in Tears,
Much, much she Wishes, more she fears.
Take, take her to thy Faithful Arms
Hymen bestows thee all her Charms.

II.

Heav'n to thee Bequeaths the Fair
To raise thy Joy, and lull thy Care;
Heav'n made Grief, if Mutual, cease,
But Joy, divided, to encrease;
To Mourn with her exceeds delight,
Darkness with her, the Joys of Light.

X

It is night; and I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent shrieks down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds.
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds; stars of the night, appear! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the toil of the chace! his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar; nor can I hear the voice of my love.

VIII

By the side of a rock on the hill, beneath the aged trees, old Oscian sat on the moss; the last of the race of Fingal. Sightless are his aged eyes; his beard is waving in the wind. Dull through the leafless trees he heard the voice of the north. Sorrow revived in his soul: he began and lamented the dead.

VI

Son of the noble Fingal, Oscian, prince of men! what tears run down the cheeks of age? what shades thy mighty soul?
Memory, son of Alpin, memory wounds the aged Of former times are my thoughts; my thoughts are of the noble Fingal. The race of the king return into my mind, and wound me with remembrance.

V

Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river thro' the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill, and marks the grave of Connal. The leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead. At times are seen here the ghosts of the deceased, when the musing hunter alone stalks slowly over the heath. Appear in thy armour of light, thou ghost of mighty Connal! Shine, near thy tomb, Crimora! like a moon-beam from a cloud.