THE
PRAISES OF RURAL LIFE.
FROM HORACE.
Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,
Ut prisca gens mortalium etc.
Happy the man who, far from public strife,
Enjoys the calm content of rural life;
Who, like his sires, free from the curse of gain,
Still drives his oxen o'er his native plain.
No martial trump awakes his slumbering fears,
Or dangerous wave its threatening front uprears.[1]
He shuns alike the thresholds of the great,
The senate's broil, the forum's loud debate,
But up the lofty elm, employ divine,
Delights to rear and train the tender vine;
Or view, perchance, along the grassy mead,
In vales remote, the wandering cattle feed,
Or hoard in precious jars the honied wealth,
Or clip the lambs rejoicing in their health.
And when Autumnus bears his yellow head,
- ↑ Alluding to the dangerous occupations of the soldier and sailor.
