Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Country Life.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Country Life.
See Peasant.
Like the first Mortals happy He,
Whose Oxen plow his own paternal Plain:
From Hurry and Fatigue of Bus'ness free,
And quite a Stranger to usurious Gain.
Him, nor the rattling Trumpet calls to War,
Nor does the roaring Ocean scare:
The Bar he shuns: nor meanly stoops to wait
At the proud Levees of the lordly Great.
Or, his Amusement is to twine
Round the tall Poplar the embracing Vine:
Or, useless Branches cutting clear away,
He grafts a better Kind than they.
Or, climbing up some hilly Steep,
Thro' the long Vales his lowing Herds he sees:
Or, presses into Jars the Labour of his Bees;
Or, sheers his over-burden'd Sheep.
Or else, when Autumn crown'd with golden Ears,
And full ripe Apples, rears her graceful Head:
Delighted much he plucks the grafted Pears,
And lushious Grapes that with Purple overspread
Beneath some ancient Oak he likes to lie,
Or on the Turf enjoys the open Sky:
While the deep River gently glides along,
The Groves ring round the Birds melodious Song,
The limpid Brooks roll on their thrilling Streams,
Inviting soft Repose and pleasing Dreams.
But when the Blasts of Winter blow,
And gentle Show'rs are turn'd to Snow,
With Dogs, the Boar, a furious Prey,
He drives to Toils that stop the Way;
Or, slily, spreads around the Bush,
His Nets to catch the greedy Thrush:
Or fearful Hares, or dainty Cranes,
In Gins ensnar'd, reward his Pains.
While thus amus'd what Lover must not lose
The sad Remembrance of his Cares and Woes?
But if a chaste, good-natur'd Wife,
Divides with him the Cares of Life,
With constant Diligence does oversee
His hopeful Children and his Family:
(Like some old Sabine, or Apulian Dame,
Sun-burnt, and swarthy, but of honest Fame.)
A chearful Fire she gets, against he come,
Weary with Sport, or Labour, home:
The Flock she folds, and milks the Kine;
With unbought Dainties spreads the Board:
With what the Fields and Yard afford,
And from the Hogshead draws the racy Wine.
Amidst these Feasts how pleasant to behold
The full fed Flocks home hasting to the Fold:
Whilst loud the weary Oxen low,
And slow along the Ground trails the inverted Plow!
Their Labour done, to see the Swains carouse,
While Mirth, and Jokes, and Laughter shake the House.—
Whose Oxen plow his own paternal Plain:
From Hurry and Fatigue of Bus'ness free,
And quite a Stranger to usurious Gain.
Him, nor the rattling Trumpet calls to War,
Nor does the roaring Ocean scare:
The Bar he shuns: nor meanly stoops to wait
At the proud Levees of the lordly Great.
Or, his Amusement is to twine
Round the tall Poplar the embracing Vine:
Or, useless Branches cutting clear away,
He grafts a better Kind than they.
Or, climbing up some hilly Steep,
Thro' the long Vales his lowing Herds he sees:
Or, presses into Jars the Labour of his Bees;
Or, sheers his over-burden'd Sheep.
Or else, when Autumn crown'd with golden Ears,
And full ripe Apples, rears her graceful Head:
Delighted much he plucks the grafted Pears,
And lushious Grapes that with Purple overspread
Beneath some ancient Oak he likes to lie,
Or on the Turf enjoys the open Sky:
While the deep River gently glides along,
The Groves ring round the Birds melodious Song,
The limpid Brooks roll on their thrilling Streams,
Inviting soft Repose and pleasing Dreams.
But when the Blasts of Winter blow,
And gentle Show'rs are turn'd to Snow,
201
He drives to Toils that stop the Way;
Or, slily, spreads around the Bush,
His Nets to catch the greedy Thrush:
Or fearful Hares, or dainty Cranes,
In Gins ensnar'd, reward his Pains.
While thus amus'd what Lover must not lose
The sad Remembrance of his Cares and Woes?
But if a chaste, good-natur'd Wife,
Divides with him the Cares of Life,
With constant Diligence does oversee
His hopeful Children and his Family:
(Like some old Sabine, or Apulian Dame,
Sun-burnt, and swarthy, but of honest Fame.)
A chearful Fire she gets, against he come,
Weary with Sport, or Labour, home:
The Flock she folds, and milks the Kine;
With unbought Dainties spreads the Board:
With what the Fields and Yard afford,
And from the Hogshead draws the racy Wine.
Amidst these Feasts how pleasant to behold
The full fed Flocks home hasting to the Fold:
Whilst loud the weary Oxen low,
And slow along the Ground trails the inverted Plow!
Their Labour done, to see the Swains carouse,
While Mirth, and Jokes, and Laughter shake the House.—
There's none can live so innocent and free,
Or follow Nature's Laws, so close, as he,
Who, far from Cities, does securely dwell,
Fond of the Country, in some humble Cell.
Whose happy Life is thus obscurely spent,
No wretched Avarice can e'er torment:
No Praise he covets, from the giddy Throng,
Who to the Good are seldom constant long:
Destructive Envy ne'er comes near his Gate,
Nor the frail Favour of th' unsteady Great.
No Courts he follows, nor, a royal Slave,
Seeks he vain Titles, or does Riches crave.
Exempt from ev'ry Hope and ev'ry Fear,
Scarce, even Malice, can assault him here.
Black Crimes in Cities bred he does not know,
Nor when the People rage,—
Does his clear Conscience dread the threat'ned Blow.
Or follow Nature's Laws, so close, as he,
Who, far from Cities, does securely dwell,
Fond of the Country, in some humble Cell.
Whose happy Life is thus obscurely spent,
No wretched Avarice can e'er torment:
No Praise he covets, from the giddy Throng,
Who to the Good are seldom constant long:
Destructive Envy ne'er comes near his Gate,
Nor the frail Favour of th' unsteady Great.
No Courts he follows, nor, a royal Slave,
Seeks he vain Titles, or does Riches crave.
203
Scarce, even Malice, can assault him here.
Black Crimes in Cities bred he does not know,
Nor when the People rage,—
Does his clear Conscience dread the threat'ned Blow.
Would You a House for Happiness erect,
Let Nature be herself the Architect:
She'll build it more convenient than great,
And doubtless in the Country chuse her Seat.
What other Place can better Helps supply,
Against the Force of Winter's Cruelty?
Where does a more refreshing Air asswage,
The Dog-Star's Fury, or the Lion's Rage?
Or where, ah where, but here, can Sleep maintain
Devoid of Care, her soft imperial Reign?
Is Lybian Marble press'd beneath thy Feet,
More beautiful than Flow'rs, or half so sweet?
Or Water roaring thro' the bursting Lead,
So pure, as murm'ring in it's native Bed?
Who builds in Cities yet the Fields approves,
And hedges in with Pillars awkard Groves:
Strives for the Country View that farthest runs,
And tweers aloof at Beauties which he shuns.
In driving Nature out our Force is vain,
Still the recoiling Goddess comes again:
And creeps in silent Triumph, to deride
The weak Attempts of Luxury and Pride.—
Let Nature be herself the Architect:
She'll build it more convenient than great,
And doubtless in the Country chuse her Seat.
What other Place can better Helps supply,
Against the Force of Winter's Cruelty?
Where does a more refreshing Air asswage,
The Dog-Star's Fury, or the Lion's Rage?
Or where, ah where, but here, can Sleep maintain
Devoid of Care, her soft imperial Reign?
Is Lybian Marble press'd beneath thy Feet,
More beautiful than Flow'rs, or half so sweet?
Or Water roaring thro' the bursting Lead,
So pure, as murm'ring in it's native Bed?
Who builds in Cities yet the Fields approves,
And hedges in with Pillars awkard Groves:
Strives for the Country View that farthest runs,
And tweers aloof at Beauties which he shuns.
In driving Nature out our Force is vain,
Still the recoiling Goddess comes again:
And creeps in silent Triumph, to deride
The weak Attempts of Luxury and Pride.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |