The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical

In my

fmall pinnace I can fail,

Contemning all the bluftering roar ;

An, running with a merry gale,
With friendly ftars my fafety feek
Within fome little winding c.cek :

And fee the ftorm afhore.

The Second EPODE of HORACE.

OW happy in his low degree,

How rich in humble poverty, is he,
Who leads a quiet country life;
Difcharg'd of business, void of ftrife,
And from the griping fcrivener free!
Thus, ere the feeds of vice were fown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own
Their finall paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets fummon him to war,
Nor drums difturb his morning fleep,
Nor knows he merchants' gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamours of contentious law,

And court, and state, he wifely fhuns,
Nor, brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,
To fervile falutations runs ;

But either to the clasping vine
Does the fupporting poplar wed,
Or with his pruning-hook disjoin

Unbearing branches from their head, And grafts more happy in their stead : Or, cl mbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar,
Or sheers his overburden'd sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or in the now-declining year,

When bounteous Autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

And clustering grapes with purple spread.

The fairest of his fruit he ferves,

Priapus, thy rewards : Sylvanus too his part deferves,

Whose care the fences guards. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,

Or on the matted grafs, he lies;
No God of fleep he need invoke ;

The stream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle flumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the sprays
Maintains the concert of the fong;
And hidden birds with native lays
The golden fleep prolong.

But, when the blast of winter blows,

And hoary froft inverts the year,

Into the naked woods he goes,

And feeks the tufty boar to rear,

With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear!

Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight

With twinkling glaffes, to betray The larks that in the meshes light,

Or makes the fearfui hare his prey.
Amidst his harmless eafy joys

No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind deftroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chaste and pleasing wife,
To cafe the bufinefs of his life,
Divides with him his houfhold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and fwarthy though she be,

Will fire for winter-nights provide,
And without noise will overfee
His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
If the 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 fober appetite would with, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempefts overtake,

And hither waft the coftly dish. Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,

Which Phafs or Ionia yields,

More pleafing morfels would afford
Than the fat olives of my fields ;
Than fhards or mallows for the pot,

That keep the loofen'd body found,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot

To the juft guardian of my ground.
Amidst these feafts of happy swains,
The jolly fhepherd fmiles to fee
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loosen'd yoke:
To look upon his menial crew,

That fit around his chearful hearth,

And bodies fpent in toil renew

With wholesome food and country mirth..

This Morecraft faid within himself,
Refolv'd to leave. the wicked town:

And live retir'd upon his own,

He call'd his money in ;.

But the prevailing love of pelf, Soon split him on the former fhelf, He put it out again.

CON