Classic Poem

Blest as th'immortal Gods is he
Who lives from toilsome bus'ness free,
Like the first race in Saturns reign
When floods of Nectar stain'd the main,
Manuring with laborious hand
His own hereditary Land,
Whome no contracted debts molest
No griping Creditors infesst.
No trumpets sound, no Soldiers cries,
Drive the soft Slumbers from his eyes,
He sees no boist'rous Tempests sweep
The Surface of the boiling Deep,
Him no contentious suits in law
From his belov'd retirement draw,
He ne'er with forc'd Submission waits
Obsequious, at his Patrons gates;
But round the lofty Poplar twines
With artfull hand the teeming vines,
Or prunes the barren boughs away;
[Or] sees from far his Bullocks play
Or drains the Labour of the Bees,
Or sheers the Lambkins snowy fleece.
Or when with golden Apples crown'd
Autumn o'erlooks the smiling Ground
When rip'ning fruits perfume the year,
Plucking the blushing Grape and Pear,
Gratefull, rewards the Deities,
That, fav'ring, listen to his cries.
Beneath some spreading Ilex Shade
On some green bank supinely Laid,
Where Riv'lets gently purl along
And, murm'ring, balmy Sleep prolong,
Whilst each Musician of the Grove
Lamenting, warbles out his love,
In pleasing Dreams he cheats the Day
Unhurt by Phaebus fi'ry ray.
But when increas'd by Winter shours
Down cliffs the roaring Torrent pours
The grizly foaming Boar surrounds
With twisted toils, and op'ning hounds;
[So]me times the greedy Thrush to kill
[He] sets his nets, employs his skill.
With secret springes oft ensnares
The screaming Cranes and fearfull Hares.
Would not these pleasures soon remove
The bitter pangs of slighted love?
If to compleat this heav'nly Life
A frugal, chast, industrious, Wife,
Such as the Sun-burnt Sabines were,
Divide the burden of his care,
And heap the fire, and milk the Kine
And crown the bowl with new-prest wine
And waiting for her weary lord
With unbought dainties load the board;
I should behold with scornfull eye
The studied arts of Luxury:
No fish from the Carpathian coast
By Eastern Tempests hither tost,
Nor Lybian fowls, nor Snipes of Greece,
So much my Appetite would please
As herbs of which the forrests nigh
Wholsome variety supply.
Then to the Gods, on solemn days,
The farmer annuall honours pays
Or feasts on Kids the Wolves had kill'd
And frighted, left upon the field,
How pleas'd he sees his Cattle come,
Their dugs with milk distended, home!
How pleas'd beholds his Oxen bow
And faintly draw th'inverted Plow.
His chearfull Slaves, a num'rous band,
Around in beauteous order stand.

Thus did the Us'rer Alphius praise,
With transports kindled, rural ease,
His money he collected strait,
Resolv'd to purchase a retreat.
But still desires of sordid gain
Fix'd in his canker'd breast remain:
Next Month he sets it out again.