Classic Poem

I hate the mob, and drive them hence,
Lost to all sanctity and sense;
Hist to the Muse's priest! hist I implore —
I sing for maids and youths the strains unheard before.
Dread sovereigns their own people sway,
But Jove the kings themselves obey;
He which in triumph hurl'd the giants down,
And rules the universe by his commanding frown.
One man, perhaps, out-plants his friend,
In rows that regular extend;
Another comes more noble to the poll,
Another pleads his fame, and uncorrupted soul;
Another will th'ascendant claim
For clients — but 'tis all the same;
Necessity demands us, dross and scum,
And shakes the labell'd lots, and out they all must come.
He, o'er whose head the naked steel
Impends, will make no hearty meal
From rich Sicilian fare — his sleep no more
The chirping of the birds or harpers will restore —
Sweet sleep's the lusty lab'rer's lot:
Sleep does not scorn the lowly cot,
Nor trees that o'er the riv'let interweave,
Nor, Tempe, where the zephyrs play their pranks at eve.
He who desires but neighbour's fare,
Will for no storm or tempest care;
Him setting bear nor rising goat offends,
Nor all the wizzard wit of diarist portends.
Not vineyards beaten by the hail;
Not flattering farm, whose symptoms fail,
The trees now laying blame upon the showers,
Now winter's pinching hand, or hot sidereal pow'rs.
The fishes feel the waters shrink,
Such loads into the depths they sink;
Here many a proud surveyor with his slaves,
And owner of the land, incroach upon the waves.
But fear and conscience with her cries
Aboard with the possessor flies;
Nor care will from the top-mast head recede,
And, when he lands, she mounts behind him on his steed.
What if nor stone in Phrygia hewn
Can keep the troubl'd mind in tune,
Nor purple brighter than the painted sky,
Nor rich Falernian grape, nor Persian luxury;
Why should I set about a pile,
High-pillar'd in the modern stile —
A bait for envy? — Why should I exchange
For cumbersome expence my little Sabine grange?