University of Virginia Library

The Golden Age.

Translated from the First Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses.

The happy Times, that first on Mortals smil'd
In the World's Infant Age, were Golden stil'd;
Unaw'd by Rulers, nor by Laws restrain'd,
They then from Ill spontaneously refrain'd,
And Nature's sacred Rights invi'lably maintain'd:
No threat'ning Words, on brazen Tables read,
Denounc'd just Vengeance on the guilty Head.
The Pine, as yet for lofty Masts unhew'd,
Secure upon its Native Mountain stood,
Nor e'er had floated on the briny Flood.
Beyond the Seas, no foreign Lands they sought,
And their own Shores, Earth's utmost Limits thought.
No circling Motes th' unguarded Towns surround,
Nor yet was heard the Trumpet's Martial Sound.
In War not practis'd, nor with Arms prepar'd,
No hostile Wrongs the peaceful Nations fear'd.
The bounteous Glebe, unwounded with the Plough,
Did of its own accord its Gifts allow.
The frugal Race, content with what the Earth
Gave of her self by a spontaneous Birth,
Wild Cherries and wild Apples of the Field,
With fragrant Strawberries the Mountains yield,
And Acrons, that the Oak's broad Branches bear,
Gather'd for Food, and thought no homely Fare.
Th' unlabour'd Land with bending Ears was crown'd;
And smiling Plenty grace'd the fertile Ground.
Spring Ever reign'd; and balmy Breezes fann'd
Delightful Flow'rs, thick-strew'd by Nature's Hand.
Rivers of Milk and Nectar then did flow,
And yellow Honey drop'd from every Bough.