Classic Poem

Blest he! whose soul exploring Nature's laws,
Treads on all Fear; treads on relentless Fate,
And on thy Roar, insatiate Acheron!
Blest also he! who loves the rural Gods,
Pan, and sage Sylvan, and the Sister-Nymphs.
Him nor King's Scepter moves, nor people's Rod,
Nor the curst Feuds, dissolving Brother's love,
Nor the confederate Danube's fierce descent,
Rome's Fate, or falling Empires. His calm breast
No wretched Pity rends, nor Envy stings.
What yield his Orchards and spontaneous Glebe,
He reaps enjoying far from brazen Laws,
State-Revenues, and mad Election-Broils.
Some the blind Shallows tempt, or rush on steel,
Or wind 'em into Courts and Cabinets.
This plunders Cities, rifles houshold Gods,
To sleep in Tyrian Purple, quaff in Gems.
That piles up Wealth, broods o'er his buried Gold:
This stuns the thund'ring Bar: that swallows Fame's
Thick echoes, o'er the Great and Vulgar Crowds
Riding. And others, 'smear'd with brother's blood,
Renounce in Exile their sweet native home,
And seek their Country 'neath another Sun.
The Swain his fallows turns: here toils the year;
Hence he sustains his Country; hence his House;
Hence too his Herds, and well-deserving Steers.
Still the prolific Year or teems with Fruits,
Increase of Kine, or sheaves of Ceres' Grain
Surcharging erst his furrows, now his barns.
Winter his Sician Olives calls to press.
Mast swells his swine returning. Woods yield shrubs;
Autumn its various fruits; and high around
The mellow Vintage decks the sunny rocks.
Round his fond Kisses how his children hang!
Chaste Pallas guards his Dwelling. Milk-swoln Kine
Proffer their teats. In their rich pasture frisk,
And fierce encount'ring push his vigorous Kids.
Himself regaling spreads along the grass,
Where round the fire they crown the jovial Bowl
And pouring calls on Bacchus; then his Swains
Matches for flinging at the lofty Elm,
Or oils for wrestling their big muscles bare.
Such life of yore the ancient Sabins led:
Such our Twin Founders. Hence rose brave Etruria.
Hence, thou the glory of the Earth, dread Rome!
Whose single wall encircles seven Towers.
Ere the Dictean Jove his scepter sway'd,
Ere impious Mortals gorg'd on Oxen slain;
These golden pleasures Earth to Saturn gave:
Nor war's Alarms struck yet the Pannic Dread
Nor stunning Anvil form'd the deadly Spear.