The Works of Horace In English Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Blest as our Sires of old is he,
Who, from vexatious Business free,
Tills an hereditary Plain,
Unsully'd by the Love of Gain.
No Trumpet breaks his peaceful Sleep,
No Danger dreads he from the Deep.
Far from the Forum, and the Gate
Of the contemptuous Rich and Great,
Pleas'd round the Poplar's Height he twines
His clasping marriageable Vines;
Lops useless Boughs, and, on the Tree,
Ingrafts a hopeful Progeny;
Or, in a secret Vale, surveys
His Cattle lowing as they graze;
His Flocks, with Fleece o'erburden'd, shears,
Or lays his Honey up in Jars.

But o'er the Fields his graceful Head
When Autumn rears, with Fruit o'erspread,

With Joy the Pear, or Grape, whose Dye
Not ev'n the Crimson can outvye,
He plucks; Sylvanus! thy Rewards,
Or his, who still his Orchard guards.
Now in an Oak's embowering Shade,
Now on the Grass behold him laid!
While near him rolls a rapid Flood,
And Songsters warble in the Wood;
And, gurgling down the verdant Steep,
Cascades prolong his balmy Sleep.

But when stern Jove with wintry Storms
The Beauty of the Year deforms,
With Hounds on every Side beset,
He drives fierce Boars into his Net,
Or with nice Art slight Meshes lays,
And the voracious Thrush betrays;
Or (grateful Prizes!) in a Snare
Beguiles the foreign Crane, or Hare.

Who, thus employ'd, has Time to prove
The soft Anxieties of Love?
But if a chaste and chearful Wife,
To crown the Blessings of his Life,

Should o'er his cleanly House preside,
His Family and Children guide;
(Like Sabine Dames, though tann'd they were
With Summer Suns, and sultry Air)
And make the well-dry'd Billets burn
Against her Husband's wish'd Return;
In Folds his joyful Goats restrain,
And all their milky Treasure drain;
With Wine of this Year's Vintage greet,
And give him an unpurchas'd Treat;
No Lucrine Oysters would I wish
To taste; nor Turbot; nor the Fish,
Which from the Eastern Sea is tost
By Storms, on our Italian Coast:
Nor Heathpouts, nor the Libyan Bird,
So scarce, should ever be preferr'd
To my own Olives, luscious Fare!
From loaded Branches cull'd with Care;
Or to wild Mallows, wholesome Food!
Or Shards, which love the marshy Flood;
Or Lambkin slain on festal Day,
Or Kid, from Wolves just snatch'd away.

Pleas'd, at such Meals, shall I behold
My Sheep returning to the Fold;

My lowing Oxen, tir'd and slow,
With loosen'd Traces drag the Plough;
And all my Slaves, that swarm, like Bees,
Round my blithe Houshold Deities.

This to himself old Alfius said;
And, panting for the rural Shade,
In Haste call'd all his Money in;
Next Week he put it out again.