XXIII.Medley.

FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE.

How happy in his low degree,How rich in humble poverty is he,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 sownLiv’d men in better ages born,Who plow’d with oxen of their ownTheir small paternal field of corn.Nor trumpets summon him to war,Nor drums disturb his morning sleep,Nor knows he merchants’ painful care,Nor fears the dangers of the deep.The clamors 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 vineDoes the supporting poplar wed,Or with his pruning-hook disjoinUnbearing branches from their head,And grafts more happy in their stead;Or climbing to a hilly steep,He views his buds in vales afar,Or shears his overburden’d sheep,Or mead for cooling drink preparesOf virgin honey in the jars;Or, in the now declining year,When beauteous Autumn rears his head,He joys to pull the ripen’d pearAnd clust’ring grapes, with purple spread.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 pebble flies,With gentle slumber crowns his eyes,The wind that whistles through the spraysMaintains 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 invests the year,Into the naked woods he goes,And seeks the tusky boar to near,With well-mouthed hounds and pointed spear!Or spreads his subtile nets from sight,With twinkling glasses to betrayThe larks that in the meshes light;Or makes the fearful bear 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 business of his life,Divides with him his household care,Such as the Sabine matrons were,Such as the swift Apulian’s bride,Sunburnt and swarthy though she be,Will fire for winter nights provide,And—without noise—will overseeHis children and his family;And order all things till he come,Sweaty and over-labored, home;If she in pens his flock will fold,And then produce her dairy store,With wine to drive away the cold,And unbought dainties for the poor;Not oysters of the Lucrine lakeMy sober appetite would wish,Nor turbot, or the foreign fishThat rolling tempests overtake,And hither waft the costly dish.Not heathpoult, or the rarer bird,Which Phasis or Ionia yields,More pleasing morsels would affordThan the fat olives of my fields;Than shards or mallows for the pot,That keep the loosened body sound;Or than the lamb, that falls by lotTo the just guardian of my ground.Amidst these feasts of happy swains,The jolly shepherd smiles to seeHis flock returning from the plains;The farmer is as pleased 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 renewWith wholesome food and country mirth.This Alphius 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.Translation ofDryden.

How happy in his low degree,

How rich in humble poverty is he,

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’ painful care,

Nor fears the dangers of the deep.

The clamors 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 buds in vales afar,

Or shears his overburden’d sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares

Of virgin honey in the jars;

Or, in the now declining year,

When beauteous Autumn rears his head,

He joys to pull the ripen’d pear

And clust’ring grapes, with purple spread.

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 pebble 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 invests the year,

Into the naked woods he goes,

And seeks the tusky boar to near,

With well-mouthed hounds and pointed spear!

Or spreads his subtile nets from sight,

With twinkling glasses to betray

The larks that in the meshes light;

Or makes the fearful bear 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 business of his life,

Divides with him his household care,

Such as the Sabine matrons were,

Such as the swift Apulian’s bride,

Sunburnt 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 over-labored, home;

If she in pens his flock will fold,

And then produce her dairy store,

With wine to drive away the cold,

And unbought dainties for the poor;

Not oysters 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 heathpoult, 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 loosened 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 pleased 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 Alphius 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.Translation ofDryden.

This Alphius 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.

Translation ofDryden.

Mistress Alice, in my most heartywise I recommend me to you. And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our barns and our neighbours’ also, with all the corn that was therein; albeit (saving God’spleasure) it is great pity of so much good corn lost; yet since it has liked him to send us such a chance, we must and are bounden, not only to be content, but also to be glad of his visitation. He sent us all that we have lost; and since he hath by such a chance taken it away again, his pleasure be fulfilled! Let us never grudge thereat, but take it in good worth, and heartily thank him, as well for adversity as for prosperity. And peradventure we have more cause to thank him for our loss than for our winning, for his wisdom better seeth what is good for us than we do ourselves. Therefore, I pray you be of good cheer, and take all the household with you to church, and there thank God, both for that he has given us, and for that he has taken from us, and for that he hath left us; which, if it please him, he can increase when he will, and if it please him to leave us yet less, at his pleasure be it!

I pray you to make some good onsearch what my poor neighbours have lost, and bid them make no thought therefor; for, if I should not leave myself a spoon, there shall no poor neighbour of mine bear no loss by my chance, happened in my house. I pray you be, with my children and your household, merry in God; and devise somewhat with your friends what way were best to take, for provision to be made for corn for our household, and for seed this year coming, if we think it good that we keep the ground still in our hands. And whether we think it good that we so shall do or not, yet I think it were not best suddenly thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk from our farm, till we have somewhat advised us thereon. Howbeit, if we have more now than ye shall need, and which can get them other masters, ye may then discharge us of them. But I would not that any man were suddenly sent away, he wot not whither.

At my coming hither, I perceived none other but that I should tarry still with the king’s grace. But now I shall, I think, because of this chance, get leave this next week to come home and see you, and then shall we farther devise together upon all things, what order shall be best to take.

And thus as heartily fare you well, with all our children, as ye can wish. At Woodstock, the third day of September, by the hand of

Thomas More, 1480–1535.

SWEDISH.

Mid the high bleak moors of Saarijärvis,On a sterile farm, lived peasant Pavo,And its poor soil tilled with care untiring,Trusting to the Lord to send the increase.Here he lived with wife and little children,With them of sweat-earned bread partaking.Dikes he dug, and plowed his land and sowed it.Spring-time came, and now the melting snow-driftsDrenched the fields, and half the young crop perished;Summer came, and the descending hail-stormsDashed the early ears down, half destroying;Autumn came, and frosts the remnant blasted.Pavo’s wife she tore her hair, and spake thus:“Pavo, Pavo! man the most unhappy,Take thy staff; by God we are forsaken;Hard it is to beg, to starve is harder!”Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered:“God doth try his servant, not forsake him;Bread made half of bark must now suffice us!I will dig the dikes of two-fold deepness;But from God will I await the increase!”She made bread of corn and bark together;He dug lower dikes with double labor,Sold his sheep, and purchased rye and sowed it.Spring-time came, again the melting snow-driftsDrenched the fields, and half the young crop perished;Summer came, and the descending hail-stormsDashed the early ears down, half destroying;Autumn came, and frosts the remnant blasted.Pavo’s wife she smote her breast, exclaiming:“Pavo, Pavo! man the most unhappy,Let us die, for God hath us forsaken:Hard it is to die, to live is harder!”Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered:“God doth try his servant, not forsake him;Bread made half of bark must still suffice us!I will dig the dikes of double deepness;But from Heaven I will expect the increase!”She made bread of corn and bark together;He dug lower dikes with double labor,Sold his cattle, purchased rye and sowed it.Spring-time came, but now the melting snow-driftsLeft the young crops in the fields uninjured;Summer came, but the descending hail-stormsDashed not down the rich ears, naught destroying;Autumn came, and saw, by frosts unblighted,Wave the golden harvest for the reaper.Then fell Pavo on his knees, thus speaking:“God hath only tried us, not forsaken!”On her knees his wife fell, and thus said she:“God hath only tried us, not forsaken!”And then gladly spake she to her husband:“Pavo, Pavo! take with joy the sickle,We may now make glad our hearts with plenty,Now may throw away the bark unsavory,And bake rich, sweet bread of rye-meal only!”Pavo took her hand in his, and answered:“Woman, woman! ’tis but sent to try us,If we will have pity on the sufferer.Mix thou bark with corn even as aforetime,Frosts have killed the harvest of our neighbor.”Translation ofMrs. Howitt.Johann Ludwig Runeberg.

Mid the high bleak moors of Saarijärvis,

On a sterile farm, lived peasant Pavo,

And its poor soil tilled with care untiring,

Trusting to the Lord to send the increase.

Here he lived with wife and little children,

With them of sweat-earned bread partaking.

Dikes he dug, and plowed his land and sowed it.

Spring-time came, and now the melting snow-drifts

Drenched the fields, and half the young crop perished;

Summer came, and the descending hail-storms

Dashed the early ears down, half destroying;

Autumn came, and frosts the remnant blasted.

Pavo’s wife she tore her hair, and spake thus:

“Pavo, Pavo! man the most unhappy,

Take thy staff; by God we are forsaken;

Hard it is to beg, to starve is harder!”

Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered:

“God doth try his servant, not forsake him;

Bread made half of bark must now suffice us!

I will dig the dikes of two-fold deepness;

But from God will I await the increase!”

She made bread of corn and bark together;

He dug lower dikes with double labor,

Sold his sheep, and purchased rye and sowed it.

Spring-time came, again the melting snow-drifts

Drenched the fields, and half the young crop perished;

Summer came, and the descending hail-storms

Dashed the early ears down, half destroying;

Autumn came, and frosts the remnant blasted.

Pavo’s wife she smote her breast, exclaiming:

“Pavo, Pavo! man the most unhappy,

Let us die, for God hath us forsaken:

Hard it is to die, to live is harder!”

Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered:

“God doth try his servant, not forsake him;

Bread made half of bark must still suffice us!

I will dig the dikes of double deepness;

But from Heaven I will expect the increase!”

She made bread of corn and bark together;

He dug lower dikes with double labor,

Sold his cattle, purchased rye and sowed it.

Spring-time came, but now the melting snow-drifts

Left the young crops in the fields uninjured;

Summer came, but the descending hail-storms

Dashed not down the rich ears, naught destroying;

Autumn came, and saw, by frosts unblighted,

Wave the golden harvest for the reaper.

Then fell Pavo on his knees, thus speaking:

“God hath only tried us, not forsaken!”

On her knees his wife fell, and thus said she:

“God hath only tried us, not forsaken!”

And then gladly spake she to her husband:

“Pavo, Pavo! take with joy the sickle,

We may now make glad our hearts with plenty,

Now may throw away the bark unsavory,

And bake rich, sweet bread of rye-meal only!”

Pavo took her hand in his, and answered:

“Woman, woman! ’tis but sent to try us,

If we will have pity on the sufferer.

Mix thou bark with corn even as aforetime,

Frosts have killed the harvest of our neighbor.”

Translation ofMrs. Howitt.Johann Ludwig Runeberg.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Happy the man who has the town escaped!To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,The shining pebbles preachVirtue’s and wisdom’s lore.The whispering grove a holy temple isTo him, where God draws nigher to his soul;Each verdant sod a shrineWhereby he kneels to Heaven.The nightingale on him sings slumber down—The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,When shines the lovely redOf morning through the trees.Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!In the ascending pomp of dawning day—Thee in the glorious sun—The worm—the budding branch.Where coolness gushes in the waving grass,Or o’er the flowers, streams, and fountains rests;Inhales the breath of prime,The gentle airs of eve.His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,And play and hop, incites to sweeter restThan golden halls of stateOr beds of down afford.To him the plumy-people sporting chirp,Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,And from his quiet handPick crumbs, or peas, or grains.Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;And in the village church-yard by the gravesSits, and beholds the cross—Death’s waving garland there.The stone beneath the elders, where a textOf Scripture teaches joyfully to die—And with his scythe stands Death—An angel, too, with palms.Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town!Him did an angel bless when he was born—The cradle of the boyWith flowers celestial strewed.Translation ofC. T. Brooks.Ludwig Holty.

Happy the man who has the town escaped!To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,The shining pebbles preachVirtue’s and wisdom’s lore.

Happy the man who has the town escaped!

To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,

The shining pebbles preach

Virtue’s and wisdom’s lore.

The whispering grove a holy temple isTo him, where God draws nigher to his soul;Each verdant sod a shrineWhereby he kneels to Heaven.

The whispering grove a holy temple is

To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;

Each verdant sod a shrine

Whereby he kneels to Heaven.

The nightingale on him sings slumber down—The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,When shines the lovely redOf morning through the trees.

The nightingale on him sings slumber down—

The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,

When shines the lovely red

Of morning through the trees.

Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!In the ascending pomp of dawning day—Thee in the glorious sun—The worm—the budding branch.

Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!

In the ascending pomp of dawning day—

Thee in the glorious sun—

The worm—the budding branch.

Where coolness gushes in the waving grass,Or o’er the flowers, streams, and fountains rests;Inhales the breath of prime,The gentle airs of eve.

Where coolness gushes in the waving grass,

Or o’er the flowers, streams, and fountains rests;

Inhales the breath of prime,

The gentle airs of eve.

His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,And play and hop, incites to sweeter restThan golden halls of stateOr beds of down afford.

His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,

And play and hop, incites to sweeter rest

Than golden halls of state

Or beds of down afford.

To him the plumy-people sporting chirp,Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,And from his quiet handPick crumbs, or peas, or grains.

To him the plumy-people sporting chirp,

Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,

And from his quiet hand

Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains.

Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;And in the village church-yard by the gravesSits, and beholds the cross—Death’s waving garland there.

Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;

And in the village church-yard by the graves

Sits, and beholds the cross—

Death’s waving garland there.

The stone beneath the elders, where a textOf Scripture teaches joyfully to die—And with his scythe stands Death—An angel, too, with palms.

The stone beneath the elders, where a text

Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die—

And with his scythe stands Death—

An angel, too, with palms.

Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town!Him did an angel bless when he was born—The cradle of the boyWith flowers celestial strewed.Translation ofC. T. Brooks.Ludwig Holty.

Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town!

Him did an angel bless when he was born—

The cradle of the boy

With flowers celestial strewed.

Translation ofC. T. Brooks.Ludwig Holty.

FROM A LETTER OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD TO THE DUCHESS OF LEINSTER.

St. John’s, New Brunswick,July 8, 1788.

My dearest Mother—Here I am, after a very long and fatiguing journey. I had no idea of what it was; it was more like a campaign than anything else, except in one material point, that of having no danger. I should have enjoyed it most completely but for the musquitoes, but they took off a great deal of my pleasure; the millions of them are dreadful; if it had not been for this inconvenience, my journey would have been delightful. The country is almost all in a state of nature, as well as its inhabitants. There are four sorts of these—the Indians, the French, the old English settlers, and now the refugees from other parts of America; the last seem the most civilized. The old settlers are almost as wild as Indians, but lead a very comfortable life; they are all farmers, and live entirely within themselves. * * * I came by a settlement along one of the rivers, which was all the work of one pair; the old man was seventy-two, the old lady seventy; they had been there thirty years; they came there with one cow, three children, and one servant; there was not a being within sixty miles of them. The first year they lived mostly on milk and marsh leaves; the second year they contrived to purchase a bull by the produce of their moose skins and fish; from this time they got on very well; and there are now five sons and a daughter, all settled in different farms along theriver for the space of twenty miles, and all living comfortably and at ease. The old pair live alone in the little old cabin they first settled in, two miles from any of their children; their little spot of ground is cultivated by these children, and they are supplied with so much butter, grain, meal, etc., from each child, according to the share he got of the land, so that the old folks have nothing to do but to mind their house, which is a kind of inn they keep, more for the sake of the company of the few travelers there are than for gain. I was obliged to stay a day with the old people, on account of the tides, which did not answer for going up the river till next morning. It was, I think, as odd and pleasant a day, in its way, as ever I passed. I wish I could describe it to you, but I can not; you must only help it out with your own imagination. Conceive, dearest mother, arriving about twelve o’clock in a hot day, at a little cabin upon the side of a rapid river, the banks all covered with wood, not a house in sight, and there finding a little, clean, tidy woman spinning, with an old man, of the same appearance, weeding salad. We had come for ten miles up the river without seeing any thing but woods. The old pair, on our arrival, got as active as if only five-and-twenty, the gentleman getting wood and water, the lady frying eggs and bacon, both talking a great deal, telling their story, as I mentioned before, how they had been there thirty years, and how their children were settled, and, when either’s back was turned, remarking how old the other had grown; at the same time all kindness, all cheerfulness, and love to each other. The contrast of all this, which had passed during the day, with the quietness of the evening, when the spirits of the old people had a little subsided and began to wear off with the day, and with the fatigue of their little work, sitting quietly at their door, on the same spot they had lived in thirty years together; the contented thoughtfulness of their countenances, which was increased by their age and the solitary life they had led; the wild quietness of the place—not a living creature or habitation to be seen—and me, Tony, and our guide, sitting with them, all on one log; the difference of the scene I had left—the immense way I had to get from this corner of the world to any thing I loved—the difference of the life I should lead from that of this old pair, perhaps at their age discontented, disappointed, and miserable, wishing for power—my dearest mother, if it was not for you, I believe I never should go home, at least I thought so at that moment. However, here I am with my regiment, up at six in the morning doing all sorts of right things, and liking it very much, determined to go home next spring, and live with you a great deal. Employment keeps up my spirits, and I shall have more every day. I own I often think how happy I should be with G——, in some of the spots I see; and envied every young farmer I met whom I saw sitting down with a young wife whom he was going to work to maintain. I believe these thoughts made my journey pleasanter than it otherwise would have been; but I don’t give way to them here. Dearest mother, I sometimes hope it will all end well; but shall not think any more of it till I hear from England. * * * * * * *

Edward Fitzgerald, 1763–1798.

[Pastoral Scene]

SONG.

See, O see!How every tree,Every bower,Every flower,A new life gives to others’ joys,While that IGrief-stricken lie,Nor can meetWith any sweetBut what faster mine destroys.What are all the senses’ pleasures,When the mind has lost all measures?Hear, O hear!How sweet and clearThe nightingaleAnd water’s fallIn concert join for others’ ear,While to me,For harmony,Every airEchoes despair,And every drop provokes a tear.What are all the senses’ pleasures,When the soul has lost all measures?George Digby,Earl of Bristol, 1612–1676.

See, O see!

How every tree,

Every bower,

Every flower,

A new life gives to others’ joys,

While that I

Grief-stricken lie,

Nor can meet

With any sweet

But what faster mine destroys.

What are all the senses’ pleasures,

When the mind has lost all measures?

Hear, O hear!How sweet and clearThe nightingaleAnd water’s fallIn concert join for others’ ear,While to me,For harmony,Every airEchoes despair,And every drop provokes a tear.What are all the senses’ pleasures,When the soul has lost all measures?George Digby,Earl of Bristol, 1612–1676.

Hear, O hear!

How sweet and clear

The nightingale

And water’s fall

In concert join for others’ ear,

While to me,

For harmony,

Every air

Echoes despair,

And every drop provokes a tear.

What are all the senses’ pleasures,

When the soul has lost all measures?

George Digby,Earl of Bristol, 1612–1676.

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content;The quiet mind is richer than a crown;Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;The poor estate scorns Fortune’s angry frowns;Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such blissBeggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.The homely house that harbors quiet rest,The cottage that affords no pride or care,The mean that 'grees with country music best,The sweet consort of mirth and music’s fare,Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;A mind content both crown and kingdom is.Robert Green, 1550–1592.

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content;

The quiet mind is richer than a crown;

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;

The poor estate scorns Fortune’s angry frowns;

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbors quiet rest,The cottage that affords no pride or care,The mean that 'grees with country music best,The sweet consort of mirth and music’s fare,Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;A mind content both crown and kingdom is.Robert Green, 1550–1592.

The homely house that harbors quiet rest,

The cottage that affords no pride or care,

The mean that 'grees with country music best,

The sweet consort of mirth and music’s fare,

Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;

A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Robert Green, 1550–1592.

1725.

Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;Not seen by our betters.

Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;

Not seen by our betters.

A companion with news; a great want of shoes;Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews;Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay;December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play!Jonathan Swift, 1667–1728.

A companion with news; a great want of shoes;

Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews;

Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay;

December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play!

Jonathan Swift, 1667–1728.

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