Poems On several Occasions, and Translations Wherein The First and Second books of Virgil's Aeneis are attempted, In English. By Tho. Fletcher |
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The Second Epode of Horace Translated. |
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 | Poems On several Occasions, and Translations |  |
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The Second Epode of Horace Translated.
Happy the Man, who free from Debts and Care(Such the first Mortals were)
Enjoys his small hereditary Field,
By his own Oxen till'd.
No harsh Alarms of War disturb his Ease,
Nor dreads he th' angry Seas;
He flies the Bar, nor does he meanly wait
At his Lordship's surly gate.
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The marriageable Vines:
And pruning useless branches from his Trees,
Grafts happier in their place:
Or in a winding Vale is pleas'd to see
His lowing Cattle stray:
Or his Bees labour in clean Vessels stows:
Or shears his tender Ewes:
Or, if grave Autumn o'er the Fields erect
His Head with Apples deckt.
How pleas'd the use of well-plac'd Art he reaps,
Fresh Pears, and purple Grapes!
Of these an Off'ring to the Gods he yields,
The Guardians of his Fields.
Now on some Oak's large foot he rests his Head,
Now on the slow'ry Mead.
Where thro' high Banks a neighb'ring Current plays:
Birds murmur thro' the Trees:
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Invite to tender sleep.
But, when cold Rains and Snow at Jove's Command
Th' inverted Year attend;
With full-mouth'd Hounds into the crafty Snare
He thrusts the foaming Boar:
Or his thin Nets extended on the Bush
Betray the greedy Thrush:
The tim'rous Hare, and foreign Crane requite
With Profit his delight.
Who cannot hence all anxious Cares remove,
And chiefly those of Love?
But if a modest frugal Matron share
His Houshold, and his Care:
(Such as the brisk Apulian's Sunburnt Bride,
Or the chast Sabine Maid)
Who makes the Hearth with aged fuel burn,
Against her Swain's return:
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And milk her wanton Kine:
And in neat Vessels to her Lord does bear
New Wine, and unbought Fare;
Not all too bounteous Nature's Luxury,
The spoils of Land and Sea,
A gust so grateful, as pick'd Olives, yield,
Or Sallets from the Field;
Or Lamb, or Kid slain at a solemn Feast,
With which choice Dainties blest,
What pleasure 'tis to see the fat Flocks come
From Pasture bleating home!
To see the weary Oxen faintly tow
Home the inverted Plow!
And with large swarms of useful Servants stor'd
To see the wealthy Board!
Thus wisely talk'd th' Old Banker, weary grown
Of Business and the Town,
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He put 'em out agen.
| Poems On several Occasions, and Translations | |