LM: Georgics 1.137-148

Contributors: Lacheal Martin

John Dryden's Translation:

Nor is the profit small the peasant makes,

Who smooths with harrows, or who pounds with rakes,

The crumbling clods: nor Ceres from on high

Regards his labours with a grudging eye:

Nor his, who ploughs across the furrowed grounds,

And on the back of earth inflicts new wounds;

For he, with frequent exercise, commands

The unwilling soil, and tames the stubborn land.

Ye swains, invoke the powers who rule the sky,

For a moist summer, and a winter dry;

For winter drought rewards the peasant's pain,

And broods indulgent on the buried grain. (Lines 137-148)

James Rhoades' Translation:

He serves the fields who with his harrow breaks

The sluggish clods, and hurdles osier-twined

Hales o'er them; from the far Olympian height

Him golden Ceres not in vain regards;

And he, who having ploughed the fallow plain

And heaved its furrowy ridges, turns once more

Cross-wise his shattering share, with stroke on stroke

The earth assails, and makes the field his thrall.

Pray for wet summers and for winters fine,

Ye husbandmen; in winter's dust the crops

Exceedingly rejoice, the field hath joy;