Page:Virgil - The Georgics, Thomas Nevile, 1767.djvu/57

 Book II. High as to heav'n 'his towring top ascends,

So low his root to hell's dark regions tends.

Hence on his strength keen winters waste their pow'r,

The roaring tempest, and the rattling show'r;

Unmov'd he mocks their rage; nor knows decay

While men and generations pass away:

On all sides round his sturdy arms display'd,

He stands, and bears a mighty weight of shade.

Let not your vineyard toward the west incline,

Nor mix the hazel with your rows of vine:

The topmost shoots reject, and (such the love

Of earth) take not your cuttings from above.

Beware your plants with blunted steel to wound,

Nor let wild olives creep into your ground.

Oft from the careless hinds a casual spark

Falls, and, first lurking in the unctuous bark,

Catches the stem, then creeping up on high

Preys on the leaves, and crackles in the sky:

From bough to bough the conqu'ring ruin strays,

Reigns o'er the top sublime, in one bright blaze

Wraps all the grove, and, thick with pitchy night,

Whirls dusky volumes up th' ethereal height:

Chief if, a storm descending on the wood,

The winds before them urge the fiery flood. To