The glitt'ring Ore let others vainly heap,
O'er fertile Vales extend th'inclosing Mound;
With dread of neighb'ring Foes forsake their Sleep,
And start aghast at ev'ry Trumpet's Sound.
Me humbler Scenes delight, and calmer Days;
A tranquil Life fair Poverty secure!
Then boast, my Hearth, a small but cheerful Blaze,
And Riches grasp who will, let me be poor.
Nor yet be Hope a Stranger to my Door,
But o'er my Roof, bright Goddess, still preside!
With many a bounteous Autumn heap my Floor,
And swell my Vats with Must, a purple Tide.
My tender Vines I'll plant with early Care,
And choicest Apples, with a skilful Hand;
Nor blush, a Rustic, oft to guide the Share,
Or goad the tardy Ox along the Land.
Let me, a simple Swain, with honest Pride,
If chance a Lambkin from its Dam should roam,
Or sportful Kid, the little Wanderer chide,
And in my Bosom bear exulting Home.
Here Pales I bedew with milky Show'rs,
Lustrations yearly for my Shepherd pay,
Revere each antique Stone bedeck'd with Flow'rs
That bounds the Field, or points the doubtful Way.
My grateful Fruits, the earliest of the Year,
Before the rural God shall duly wait.
From Ceres' Gifts I'll cull each browner Ear,
And hang a wheaten Wreath before her Gate.
The ruddy God shall save my Fruit from stealth,
And far away each little Plund'rer scare:
And you, the Guardians once of ampler Wealth,
My household Gods, shall still my Off'rings share.
My num'rous Herds, that wanton'd o'er the Mead,
The choicest Fatling then could richly yield;
Now scarce I spare a little Lamb to bleed
A mighty Victim for my scanty Field.
And yet a Lamb shall bleed, while, rang'd around,
The Village Youths shall stand in Order meet,
With rustic Hymns, ye Gods, your Praise resound,
And future Crops and future Wines intreat.
Then come, ye Pow'rs, nor scorn my frugal Board,
Nor yet the Gifts clean earthen Bowls convey;
With these the first of Men the Gods ador'd,
And form'd their simple Shape of ductile Clay.
My little Flock, ye Wolves, ye Robbers, spare,
Too mean a Plunder to deserve your Toil;
For wealthier Herds the nightly Theft prepare;
There seek a nobler Prey, and richer Spoil.
For treasur'd Wealth, nor Stores of golden Wheat,
The Hoard of frugal Sires, I vainly call;
A little Farm be mine, a Cottage neat
And wonted Couch where balmy Sleep may fall.
'What Joy to hear the Tempest howl in vain,
'And clasp a fearful Mistress to my Breast:
'Or lull'd to Slumber by the beating Rain,
'Secure and happy sink at last to rest.'
These Joys be mine!-O grant me only these,
And give to others Bags of shining Gold,
Whose steely Heart can brave the boist'rous Seas,
The Storm wide-wasting, or the stiffning Cold.
Content with little, I would rather stay
Than spend long Months amid the watry Waste:
In cooling Shades elude the scorching Ray
Beside some Fountain's gliding Waters plac'd.
O perish rather all that's rich and rare,
The diamond Quarry, and the golden Vein,
Than that my Absence cost one precious Tear,
Or give some gentle Maid a Moment's Pain.
With Glitt'ring Spoils, Messala, gild thy Dome,
Be thine the noble Task to lead the Brave:
A lovely Foe me captive holds at Home,
Chain'd to her scornful Gate, a watchful Slave.
Inglorious Post!-And yet I heed not Fame:
Th'Applause of Crouds for Delia I'd resign:
To live with thee I'd bear the Coward's Name,
Nor 'midst the Scorn of Nations once repine.
With thee to live I'd mock the Plowman's Toil,
Or on some lonely Mountain tend my Sheep;
At Night I'd lay me on the flinty Soil,
And happy 'midst thy dear Embraces sleep.
What drooping Lover heeds the Tyrian Bed,
While the long Night is pass'd with many a Sigh:
Nor softest Down with richest Carpets spread,
Nor whisp'ring Rills, can close the weeping Eye.
Of threefold Iron were his rugged Frame,
Who when he might thy yielding Heart obtain,
Could yet attend the Calls of empty Fame,
Or follow Arms in quest of sordid Gain.
Unenvy'd let him drive the vanquish'd Host,
Thro' captive Lands his conquering Armies lead;
Unenvy'd wear the Robe with Gold imboss'd,
And guide with solemn State his foaming Steed.
O may I view thee with Life's parting Ray,
And thy dear Hand with dying Ardor press:
Sure thou wilt weep-and on thy Lover's Clay,
With breaking Heart, print many a tender Kiss!
Sure thou wilt weep-and Woes unutter'd feel,
When on the Pile thou seest thy Lover laid!
For well I know, nor Flint, nor ruthless Steel,
Can arm the Breast of such a gentle Maid.
From the sad Pomp, what Youth, what pitying Fair,
Returning slow can tender Tears refrain?
O Delia, spare thy Cheeks, thy Tresses spare,
Nor give my ling'ring Shade a World of Pain.
But now while smiling Hours the Fates bestow,
Let Love, dear Maid, our gentle Hearts unite!
Soon Death will come and strike the fatal Blow;
Unseen his Head, and veil'd in Shades of Night.
Soon creeping Age will bow the Lover's Frame,
And tear the myrtle Chaplet from his Brow:
With hoary Locks ill suits the youthful Flame,
The soft Persuasion, or the ardent Vow.
Now the fair Queen of gay Desire is ours,
And lends our Follies an indulgent Smile:
'Tis lavish Youth's t'enjoy the frolick Hours,
The wanton Revel and the midnight Broil.
Your Chief, my Friends, and Fellow-soldier, I
To these light Wars will lead you boldly on:
Far hence ye Trumpets sound and Banners fly:
To those who covet Wounds and Fame begone.
And bear them Fame and Wounds; and Riches bear;
There are that Fame and Wounds and Riches prize.
For me, while I possess one plenteous Year,
I'll Wealth and meagre Want alike despise.