THE

SECOND EPODE OF HORACE.

How 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 fmall 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 ftate, he wifely fhuns,

Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,

To fervile falutations runs;

But either to the clafping vine

Does the fupporting poplar wed,

Or with his pruning-hook disjoin

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

He views his herds in vales afar, Or fheers his overburden'd fheep, Or mead for cooling drink

Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or, in the now declining year,

prepares,

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

And cluftring grapes with purple spread. The faireft of his fruit he ferves,

Priapus, thy rewards:

Sylvanus too his part deferves,

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

Or on the matted grafs he lies:

No god of Sleep he need invoke;

The ftream, that o'er the pebbles flies,
With gentle flumber crowns his eyes.
The wind, that whiftles through the fprays,
Maintains the confort of the fong;
And hidden birds, with native lays,

The golden fleep prolong.

But when the blaft of winter blows,

And hoary froft inverts the year,

Into the naked woods he goes,

And feeks the tufky boar to rear,

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With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed fpear!

Or spreads his fubtle nets from fight,
With twinkling glaffes, to betray
The larks that in the meshes light,
Or makes the fearful hare his prey.
Amidft 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 chafte and pleafing wife,
To ease the bufinefs of his life,
Divides with him his houfhold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the fwift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and fwarthy though fhe be,

Will fire for winter nights provide,
And without noife 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 ftore,
With wine to drive away the cold,

And unbought dainties of the poor;

Not oyfters of the Lucrine lake
My fober appetite would wish,
Nor turbot, or the foreign fish
That rolling tempefts overtake,

And hither waft the coftly dish.

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Not heath pout, or the rarer bird,

Which Phafis or Ionia yields,
More pleasing 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.
Amidft these feafts of happy fwains,
The jolly fhepherd fimiles to fee
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he,
To view his oxen fweating smoke,

Bear on their necks the loosen'd yoke :
To look
his menial crew,

upon

That fit around his chearful hearth,

And bodies fpent in toil renew

With wholesome food and country mirth. 95 This Morecraft faid within himself,

Refolv'd to leave the wicked town:

And live retir'd upon

He call'd his money in;

his own,

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

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END OF VOL. II.