Those very shades and streams new shades and streams require,

[raging fire. And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the

Thou, what befits the new lord mayor, And what the city factions dare, And what the Gallic arms will do, And what the quiver-bearing foe, Art anxiously inquisitive to know: But God has, wisely, hid from human sight The dark decrees of future fate,

And sown their seeds in depth of night; He laughs at all the giddy turns of state;

In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar;

And, running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek Within some little winding creek: And see the storm ashore.

THE SECOND EPODE OF

HORACE.

How happy in his low degree,

Enjoy the present smiling hour,
And put it out of Fortune's power:

The tide of business, like the running stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force;
And trunks of trees come rolling down,
Sheep and their folds together drown:
Both house and homestead into seas are borne,
And rocks are from their old foundations torn,
And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd
honours mourn.

Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of strife,
And from the griping scrivener free!
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own

Their small paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets summon him to war,

Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, Nor knows he merchants' gainful care,

Nor fears the dangers of the deep. The clamours of contentious law,

And court, and state, he wisely shuns, Nor, brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe, To servile salutations runs;

But either to the clasping vine

Does the supporting poplar wed, Or with his pruning-hook disjoin

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 sheers his overburthen'd sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or in the now-declining year,

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

And clustering grapes with purple spread. The fairest of his fruit he serves,

Priapus, thy rewards: Sylvanus too his part deserves,

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

Or on the matted grass, he lies; No god of sleep he need invoke ;

The stream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle slumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the sprays
Maintains the concert of the song;
And hidden birds with native lays

The golden sleep prolong.
But, when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary frost inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,

And seeks the tusky boar to rear,
With well-mouth'd 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,

San-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 overlabour'd, 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 poor;

Not orsters of the Lucrine lake

My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake,

And hither waft the costly dish,

Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,
Which Phasis or Ionia yields,
More pleasing morsels would afford
Than the fat olives of my fields;

Than shards or mallows for the pot,

That keep the loosen'd body sound, Or than the lamb, that falls by lot

To the just guardian of my ground.
Amidst these feasts of happy swains,

The jolly shepherd smiles to see
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loosen'd yoke:
To look upon his menial crew,

That sit around his cheerful hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew

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

Resolv'd to leave the wicked town:
And live retir'd upon his own,

He call'd his money in;

But the prevailing love of pelf
Soon split him on the former shelf,

He put it out again.

VOL. IX.

M