Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/55

 Book II. The greazy soil this token will betray;

Squeez'd in the hand it crumbles not away,

But pitch-like clammy to the fingers clings:

In the moist ground rank grass luxuriant springs;

O! be not mine so fertile, nor appear

It's strength too forward in the early ear!

The heavy speaks itself, nor less the light:

Colours are all discernible at sight:

The cold soil shuns the search; unless the yew,

Fir, or black ivy point it to the view.

Regardful of these precepts, timely bake

Your ground, and trenches in the great hills make;

Ere the glad vine you plant, the glebe to bare,

And lay it leaning to the northern air.

To none yield lands, that boast a crumbling mould,

Effect of drying blasts, and frosty cold,

And of the drudging Digger's skilful pains;

They, to whose heed no task undone remains,

Rest not, till soils quite similar they see,

In one to rear, in one transplant the tree,

Lest a strange parent the new nursling find:

Yet more, they print the aspect on the rind,

To each it's former station to restore;

Mark, on what side the southern heats it bore, What