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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Peasant. Farmer.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Peasant. Farmer.
See Country Life.
O! more than fortunate, did they but knowTheir Happiness, the Country-Village Swains!
For whom, at distance from discordant Arms,
The Earth, just Parent, pours forth easy Food.
What, tho' with them no Palace, rais'd to Heav'n,
From it's proud Portals vomits out a Tide
Of Morning-Visitants? Nor do they gape
For Luxury of Buildings: Pillars grac'd
With Spoils of Tortoises, in various Hue:
For 'broider'd Garments, and Corinthian Brass?
Tho' their white Wool imbibes no Syrian Teint:
Yet safe Repose, Sincerity of Life,
Riches of various Kinds, large Farms, and Ease,
Lowing of Herds, and Grots, and living Lakes,
Cool Vallies, and sweet Sleep beneath the Shades,
They want not.—Lawns are there, and Haunts of Beasts;
Youth patient of Fatigue, and train'd to live
On Little: Rites divine, and holy Sires:—
When Justice left the World, she left them last.—
Blest too is He, who knows the rural Gods,
Pan, old Sylvanus, and their Sister Nymphs!
Him nor the Fasces of the State can move,
Nor regal Purple: nor the Hate which reigns
'Twixt faithless Brothers: nor the Dacian Pow'rs,
Descending from the Danube leagu'd in Arms:
Nor Rome's Affairs, nor Kingdoms doom'd to fall:
The Poor his Pity moves not, nor the Rich
His Envy. Whate'er Fruits the Trees, and Fields,
Spontaneous, and without Compulsion give,
He gathers: nor e'er sees the Iron Laws,
The publick Registers, or noisy Bar.—
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The Glebe: from hence his annual Labour: hence
His Children, and his Country He sustains,
His lowing Herds, and well-deserving Steers.
No Pause, but still with Fruit the Year abounds:
With Apples, or th' Increase of Ewes and Kine,
Or with full Sheaves of Corn, the Gift of Ceres:
He loads the Furrows, and o'erpow'rs the Barns.
Winter comes on: the Presses bruise the Fruit
Of Sicyonian Olives: Fat with Mast
The Swine return: the Woods their Berries yield:
Autumn it's various Product too resigns:
And Summer on high Rocks the Vintage swells.
Mean-while their tender Parents Kisses round
Hang the sweet Babes: the Family all chaste,
Virtue and spotless Modesty preserves.
The Kine their Dugs with Milk distended bring:
And the fat sportive Kids in Pastures green
Frisk on the Turf, and push with butting Horns.—
The Country Peasant meditates no Harm,
When clad with Skins of Beasts to keep him warm,
In Winter Weather, unconcern'd he goes
Almost Knee-deep thro' Mire, in clumsy Shoes:
Vice dwells in Palaces, is richly drest,
There glows in Scarlet, and the Tyrian Vest.—
Stretch'd on the Turf in Sylvan Shades,
No Fear the Peasant's Rest invades:
While gilded Roofs, and Beds of State,
Perplex the Slumbers of the Great.
No Fear the Peasant's Rest invades:
While gilded Roofs, and Beds of State,
Perplex the Slumbers of the Great.
Secure, he rears the beachen Bowl,
With steady Hand, and fearless Soul.
Pleas'd with his plain and homely Meats,
No Swords surround him as He eats.
With steady Hand, and fearless Soul.
Pleas'd with his plain and homely Meats,
No Swords surround him as He eats.
His modest Wife, of Virtue try'd,
Knows not th' expensive Arts of Pride:
Her Neck no circling Jewels wears,
No Pearls depending load her Ears:
No Silks she boasts from India brought,
Rich by the painting Needle wrought:
Nor proud, allures each wanton Eye,
In Stuffs of double Tyrian Dye.
Her easy Wish, the home-spun Fleece,
Plain in it's native Hue, can please:
And, happy in her nuptial Bed,
No jealous Doubts disturb her Head:
Unlike the Dame, whose Day of Birth,
Is solemniz'd thro' half the Earth.—
Knows not th' expensive Arts of Pride:
Her Neck no circling Jewels wears,
No Pearls depending load her Ears:
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Rich by the painting Needle wrought:
Nor proud, allures each wanton Eye,
In Stuffs of double Tyrian Dye.
Her easy Wish, the home-spun Fleece,
Plain in it's native Hue, can please:
And, happy in her nuptial Bed,
No jealous Doubts disturb her Head:
Unlike the Dame, whose Day of Birth,
Is solemniz'd thro' half the Earth.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |