THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE. How happy in his low degree, But either to the clasping vine He views his herds in vales afar, Or in the now declining year, When bounteous autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripened pear, And clustering grapes with purple spread. Sylvanus too his part deserves, Or on the matted grass he lies; The stream, that o'er the pebbles flies, But when the blast of winter blows, Into the naked woods he goes, And seeks the tusky boar to rear, With well-mouthed 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 business 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 though 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 overlaboured, 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 Not oysters of the Lucrine lake My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake, poor; And hither waft the costly dish, To the just guardian of my ground. To view his oxen sweating smoke, That sit around his cheerful hearth, With wholesome food and country mirth. This Morecraft said within himself: He called his money in: But the prevailing love of pelf |