HKB
Nay, scarce the up-stabbing knife with blood was stained, Scarce sullied with thin gore the surface-sand. Hence die the calves in many a pasture fair, Or at full cribs their lives' sweet breath resign; Hence on the fawning dog comes madness, hence Racks the sick swine a gasping cough that chokes With swelling at the jaws: the conquering steed, Uncrowned of effort and heedless of the sward, Faints, turns him from the springs, and paws the earth With ceaseless hoof: low droop his ears, wherefrom Bursts fitful sweat, a sweat that waxes cold Upon the dying beast; the skin is dry, And rigidly repels the handler's touch. These earlier signs they give that presage doom. But, if the advancing plague 'gin fiercer grow, Then are their eyes all fire, deep-drawn their breath, At times groan-laboured: with long sobbing heave Their lowest flanks; from either nostril streams Black blood; a rough tongue clogs the obstructed jaws. 'Twas helpful through inverted horn to pour Draughts of the wine-god down; sole way it seemed To save the dying: soon this too proved their bane, And, reinvigorate but with frenzy's fire, Even at death's pinch- the gods some happier fate Deal to the just, such madness to their foes- Each with bared teeth his own limbs mangling tore. See! as he smokes beneath the stubborn share, The bull drops, vomiting foam-dabbled gore, And heaves his latest groans. Sad goes the swain, Unhooks the steer that mourns his fellow's fate, And in mid labour leaves the plough-gear fast. Nor tall wood's shadow, nor soft sward may stir That heart's emotion, nor rock-channelled flood, More pure than amber speeding to the plain: But see! his flanks fail under him, his eyes Are dulled with deadly torpor, and his neck Sinks to the earth with drooping weight. What now Besteads him toil or service? to have turned The heavy sod with ploughshare? And yet these Ne'er knew the Massic wine-god's baneful boon, Nor twice replenished banquets: but on leaves They fare, and virgin grasses, and their cups Are crystal springs and streams with running tired, Their healthful slumbers never broke by care. Then only, say they, through that country side For Juno's rites were cattle far to seek, And ill-matched buffaloes the chariots drew To their high fanes. So, painfully with rakes They grub the soil, aye, with their very nails Dig in the corn-seeds, and with strained neck O'er the high uplands drag the creaking wains. No wolf for ambush pries about the pen, Nor round the flock prowls nightly; pain more sharp Subdues him: the shy deer and fleet-foot stags With hounds now wander by the haunts of men Vast ocean's offspring, and all tribes that swim, On the shore's confine the wave washes up, Like shipwrecked bodies: seals, unwonted there, Flee to the rivers. Now the viper dies, For all his den's close winding, and with scales Erect the astonied water-worms. The air Brooks not the very birds, that headlong fall, And leave their life beneath the soaring cloud. Moreover now nor change of fodder serves, And subtlest cures but injure;