The dark decrees of future fate,

And sown their seeds in depth of night;

He laughs at all the giddy turns of state,

When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

VII.

Enjoy the present smiling hour,

50

And put it out of Fortune's pow'r.

The tide of bus'ness, like the running stream,

Both house and homested into seas are borne,

And rocks are from their old foundations torn,
And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd

honours mourn.

VIII.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call to-day his own:

He who, secure within, can say,

65

To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day. Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,

69

The joys I have possess'd, in spite of Fate, are mine.

IV.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try
A short vicissitude and fit of poverty:
A sav'ry dish, a homely treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

V.

The sun is in the Lion mounted high;

The Syrian star

Barks from afar,

And with his sultry breath infects the sky;

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30

The ground below is parch'd, the heav'nsabove us fry.

The shepherd drives his fainting flock

Beneath the covert of a rock,

And seeks refreshing riv'lets nigh:

35

The Sylvans to their shades retire ;

shades and streams new shades and streams

Those very require,

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan theraging

But God has, wisely, hid from human sight,

45

The dark decrees of future fate,

And sown their seeds in depth of night;

He laughs at all the giddy turns of state,

When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

VII.

Enjoy the present smiling hour,

50

And put it out of Fortune's pow'r.

The tide of bus'ness, like the running stream,

Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.

55

Now with a noiseless gentle course

It keeps within the middle bed;

Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force; And trunks of trees come rolling down,

Sheep and their folds together drown;

Both house and homested into seas are borne,

60

And rocks are from their old foundations torn,
And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd

honours mourn.

VIII.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call to-day his own:
He who, secure within, can say,

65

To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day. Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,

69

The joys I have possess'd, in spite of Fate, are mine.

But either to the clasping vine
Does the supporting poplar wed,

Ur with his pruning hook disjoin
Unbearing branches from their head,
And grafts more happy in their stead;
Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

20

Sylvanus, too, his part deserves,

Whose care the fences guards

Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grass, he lies;
No god of sleep he need inovoke,
The stream that o'er the pebbles flies,
With gentle slumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles thro' the sprays,
Maintains the concert of the song,
And hidden birds with native lays
The golden sleep prolong.

But when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary frost inverts the year,

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40

45

Into the naked woods he goes,

And seeks the tusky boar to rear

With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear;

Or spreads his subtle nets from sight,

With twinkling glasses to betray
The larks that in the meshes light,
Or makes the fearful hare his prey,
Amidst his harmless easy joys,
No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind destroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chaste and pleasing wife,
To ease the bus'ness of his life,

Divides with him his household care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and swarthy tho' she be,
Will fire for winter nights provide,
And, without noise, will oversee
His children and his family,
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty, and over-labour'd, home:
If she in pens his flocks will fold,
And then produce her dairy store,
With wine to drive away the cold,
And unbought dainties of the poor;
Not oysters of the Lucrine lake
My sober appetite would wish,