Happy HusbandmenGeorgicon, Bk.II.vv. 458-540
Georgicon, Bk.II.vv. 458-540
Of all rewards that Heav’n bestows on toil,Which is the peer of yours who till the soil!Would you exchange with them who sue the greatFor place or alms? Read, as they pass the gate,On this face wrath, envy on that, and gall;And, worst, the death of self-respect on all.’Tis yours to breathe an atmosphere of peace,Suitors of earth that knows not of caprice;That grieves to disappoint a hope, and poursInto expectant laps a choice of stores,Sounding changes high and low, grave and gay,On the vast organ Nature loves to play.Learn from a farm to work, and never tire;An acre is various as a shire;Labour and rest there alternating meet,Each indistinguishably good and sweet;Ah! the murmurous quiet in the wideHomesteads, where, in the intervals, besideBubbling brooks, in cool valleys, ’neath green boughsYou slumber, lullabied by lowing cows.Winter anon, earth’s holiday; and thenTo rouse the wild boar in his fenny den:Sport dear to youth’s blood racing fast and pure,Content with simple joys, trained to endure.Nor at one season, but throughout the year,Be sure the Gods fail not of love and fear:While no chimney corner but makes a shrineWhere to tend a grandsire all but divine.If Justice has not yet forsaken Earth,’Tis that she lingers on some cottage hearth!Ancestral guardians of my home forgive,Pan, too, and Sylvan, if I do not liveThe life I praise; but ere I knew its charms,The choir of Muses wooed me to their arms,Taught me an eager child their sacred lore,Arts I still love; and fain had taught me more—To map Heav’n’s paths, number its stars, and traceWhy wanes the moon; when veils the sun his face,Hastes purple-clad to sink on Ocean’s breast,And stays Night’s course for him and Man to rest;Where growling earthquakes breed; and why seas feignTo roar in wrath, and straightway laugh again.—Something I learned; and blest had been my state,If gifted with the will and powers by FateTo follow Nature to her primal cause,And coax from her the meaning of her laws;Like him, too early lost, who told us howTo spurn at all it is not Man’s to know,To count it shame to dread Death, as to weepAt putting off our shoes to go to sleep.But my blood chills—poor thing, it cannot findAir it may breathe—where soars aloft sheer Mind.Yet why lament that the Seer’s part is notFor me, when mine the sweet, if humbler, lot—To light and feed a poet’s holy fire;Rapt from myself to feel a God inspireThe visions that I see, the words I pen—The message that I bring my fellow men—Bound, if the Muse decrees, to soar awayWhere rolls Spercheios, or girls dance and playOn Spartan hills, or to some forest dellOf snowy Hæmus; while, I know it well,That far so ever as I seem to roam,My spirit always will return to home,Predestined to no inglorious themes—My native fields, and woods, and sparkling streams,And the race no less that those vales frequent,Simple husbandmen, wholly innocentOf ill, though shrewd, keen to resent a wrong;For whom I meditate my pastoral song.Fancy will wander oft to lands unknown,But finds the thoughts to dwell on in its own.Italian peasant I, and would rehearseOur peasants’ virtues in Italian verse.Let me recall a neighbour good and kind,Loving the ancient methods, disinclinedTo quit his fathers’ ways; nor bard nor sage;Who just has served the soil from youth to age.No Mysteries for him; enough to adoreThe rustic Gods his sires revered of yore.All one to him who shall the Consul be—This or that—our Rome stands eternally.He cares not about Kings; so much he knows;Rome crowned; and, when she wills, Rome can depose.Faint echoes reach the country from the TownOf swarms of Dacian pirates rowing downIster; and of brothers by brothers slain;Cæsar’s charge that—and his to garner grain.Sometimes the calm is broken by the wealthOf courtiers seeking country air for health;Why envy when the whole that they possessHas not distilled a drop of happiness!Or one may stumble by, diseased and old,With scarce a rag to shield him from the cold;The good-man helps; he pities; does not grieve;Is grateful he can give, need not receive.Statesmen will strive, he counts his orchard’s yield,And reaps his harvest from the willing field.A realm may fall, loud lawyers rule the Court,Heirships be changed by some forgot report,Adventurers new seas explore, or rushOn foreign swords in thirst for gold, or pushInto proud palace halls; while he insteadDrives his curved plough, and mows the yellow mead.Hence herds deserving well their ample cheer,With all the genial labours of the year.Hence too the tribute that he gladly bringsTo his Penates, modest offerings—Kind “Little People,” blest where’er ye comeCompacted of an atmosphere of Home!Hence, above all, what may his native landOf labour, store, nay, of his life demand!True Roman, few as he of Rome so proud;None readier to give her goods and blood!Meantime no season comes without its call;Not one would he away; he loves them all—Cries between laugh and wail from lambs new-born,Sheaves in the close-packed barn of golden corn,Groans of content from home-returning sows,The woodlands’ crackling thuds of severed boughs,Pyramids of red apples, row on row,And vineyards purpling in late Autumn’s glow,Till with the olives’ rendering of oilWinter winds up the victories of toil.Content the master, with glad welcoming eyes,As crop to crop succeeds, each a surprise,Yet taking each its place in order clear,The grand procession of the fruitful year!Harmonious whole, made up, hopes and cares,Mind’s, Body’s work, in not unequal shares;With grateful pauses, as when whirlwinds ceaseTo riot in a wood, and there is peace.Thus Eve; Man’s truce, nor his alone, for play;But Nature’s universal holiday.Stall-wards, devious steps, the cattle pass,Their udders richly furnished; on the grassWith harmless horns kids wrestle; while a band,Children and Wife, contend to clasp his hand,And kiss his lips; he happy in the prideOf love which chastity has sanctified.And days as well there are, when the farm feasts,The host reclining amid friends, his guests;High flame the hissing logs, wine-cups are crowned,And vows and healths to Gods and men go round;On equal terms master with shepherds vies,As archer, or as wrestler, for a prize.Thus sprang a race, the wonder of the earth,Suckled by Sabine mothers—as, at birth,Their king by wild werewolf—twin strains with those,Blending of Tuscan lords, high Lucumos;Till from Seven Hills, in one wall, see come,Mistress of a world, Imperial Rome!Noblest of Monsters! beautiful as brave,And strong at once to conquer, and to save.Yet sometimes dream I legends strange and sweet,Ere Nymphs nursed Jove upon a hill of Crete,Of days when Earth, a garden bright and fair,Gave Man fruits as easily as the airHe breathed; when all that trod or flew had partIn a large brotherhood of sense and heart,And it could scarce have seemed to human mindMore hideous to batten on its kind,Than with as unnatural zest to heapImpious boards with flesh of steer and sheep;When no war-bugle blew its summons shrill,Or forge had fitted hands with swords to kill;When Saturn planted here below his throne—The Age of Gold, when Heaven and Earth were one!
Of all rewards that Heav’n bestows on toil,Which is the peer of yours who till the soil!Would you exchange with them who sue the greatFor place or alms? Read, as they pass the gate,On this face wrath, envy on that, and gall;And, worst, the death of self-respect on all.’Tis yours to breathe an atmosphere of peace,Suitors of earth that knows not of caprice;That grieves to disappoint a hope, and poursInto expectant laps a choice of stores,Sounding changes high and low, grave and gay,On the vast organ Nature loves to play.Learn from a farm to work, and never tire;An acre is various as a shire;Labour and rest there alternating meet,Each indistinguishably good and sweet;Ah! the murmurous quiet in the wideHomesteads, where, in the intervals, besideBubbling brooks, in cool valleys, ’neath green boughsYou slumber, lullabied by lowing cows.Winter anon, earth’s holiday; and thenTo rouse the wild boar in his fenny den:Sport dear to youth’s blood racing fast and pure,Content with simple joys, trained to endure.Nor at one season, but throughout the year,Be sure the Gods fail not of love and fear:While no chimney corner but makes a shrineWhere to tend a grandsire all but divine.If Justice has not yet forsaken Earth,’Tis that she lingers on some cottage hearth!Ancestral guardians of my home forgive,Pan, too, and Sylvan, if I do not liveThe life I praise; but ere I knew its charms,The choir of Muses wooed me to their arms,Taught me an eager child their sacred lore,Arts I still love; and fain had taught me more—To map Heav’n’s paths, number its stars, and traceWhy wanes the moon; when veils the sun his face,Hastes purple-clad to sink on Ocean’s breast,And stays Night’s course for him and Man to rest;Where growling earthquakes breed; and why seas feignTo roar in wrath, and straightway laugh again.—Something I learned; and blest had been my state,If gifted with the will and powers by FateTo follow Nature to her primal cause,And coax from her the meaning of her laws;Like him, too early lost, who told us howTo spurn at all it is not Man’s to know,To count it shame to dread Death, as to weepAt putting off our shoes to go to sleep.But my blood chills—poor thing, it cannot findAir it may breathe—where soars aloft sheer Mind.Yet why lament that the Seer’s part is notFor me, when mine the sweet, if humbler, lot—To light and feed a poet’s holy fire;Rapt from myself to feel a God inspireThe visions that I see, the words I pen—The message that I bring my fellow men—Bound, if the Muse decrees, to soar awayWhere rolls Spercheios, or girls dance and playOn Spartan hills, or to some forest dellOf snowy Hæmus; while, I know it well,That far so ever as I seem to roam,My spirit always will return to home,Predestined to no inglorious themes—My native fields, and woods, and sparkling streams,And the race no less that those vales frequent,Simple husbandmen, wholly innocentOf ill, though shrewd, keen to resent a wrong;For whom I meditate my pastoral song.Fancy will wander oft to lands unknown,But finds the thoughts to dwell on in its own.Italian peasant I, and would rehearseOur peasants’ virtues in Italian verse.Let me recall a neighbour good and kind,Loving the ancient methods, disinclinedTo quit his fathers’ ways; nor bard nor sage;Who just has served the soil from youth to age.No Mysteries for him; enough to adoreThe rustic Gods his sires revered of yore.All one to him who shall the Consul be—This or that—our Rome stands eternally.He cares not about Kings; so much he knows;Rome crowned; and, when she wills, Rome can depose.Faint echoes reach the country from the TownOf swarms of Dacian pirates rowing downIster; and of brothers by brothers slain;Cæsar’s charge that—and his to garner grain.Sometimes the calm is broken by the wealthOf courtiers seeking country air for health;Why envy when the whole that they possessHas not distilled a drop of happiness!Or one may stumble by, diseased and old,With scarce a rag to shield him from the cold;The good-man helps; he pities; does not grieve;Is grateful he can give, need not receive.Statesmen will strive, he counts his orchard’s yield,And reaps his harvest from the willing field.A realm may fall, loud lawyers rule the Court,Heirships be changed by some forgot report,Adventurers new seas explore, or rushOn foreign swords in thirst for gold, or pushInto proud palace halls; while he insteadDrives his curved plough, and mows the yellow mead.Hence herds deserving well their ample cheer,With all the genial labours of the year.Hence too the tribute that he gladly bringsTo his Penates, modest offerings—Kind “Little People,” blest where’er ye comeCompacted of an atmosphere of Home!Hence, above all, what may his native landOf labour, store, nay, of his life demand!True Roman, few as he of Rome so proud;None readier to give her goods and blood!Meantime no season comes without its call;Not one would he away; he loves them all—Cries between laugh and wail from lambs new-born,Sheaves in the close-packed barn of golden corn,Groans of content from home-returning sows,The woodlands’ crackling thuds of severed boughs,Pyramids of red apples, row on row,And vineyards purpling in late Autumn’s glow,Till with the olives’ rendering of oilWinter winds up the victories of toil.Content the master, with glad welcoming eyes,As crop to crop succeeds, each a surprise,Yet taking each its place in order clear,The grand procession of the fruitful year!Harmonious whole, made up, hopes and cares,Mind’s, Body’s work, in not unequal shares;With grateful pauses, as when whirlwinds ceaseTo riot in a wood, and there is peace.Thus Eve; Man’s truce, nor his alone, for play;But Nature’s universal holiday.Stall-wards, devious steps, the cattle pass,Their udders richly furnished; on the grassWith harmless horns kids wrestle; while a band,Children and Wife, contend to clasp his hand,And kiss his lips; he happy in the prideOf love which chastity has sanctified.And days as well there are, when the farm feasts,The host reclining amid friends, his guests;High flame the hissing logs, wine-cups are crowned,And vows and healths to Gods and men go round;On equal terms master with shepherds vies,As archer, or as wrestler, for a prize.Thus sprang a race, the wonder of the earth,Suckled by Sabine mothers—as, at birth,Their king by wild werewolf—twin strains with those,Blending of Tuscan lords, high Lucumos;Till from Seven Hills, in one wall, see come,Mistress of a world, Imperial Rome!Noblest of Monsters! beautiful as brave,And strong at once to conquer, and to save.Yet sometimes dream I legends strange and sweet,Ere Nymphs nursed Jove upon a hill of Crete,Of days when Earth, a garden bright and fair,Gave Man fruits as easily as the airHe breathed; when all that trod or flew had partIn a large brotherhood of sense and heart,And it could scarce have seemed to human mindMore hideous to batten on its kind,Than with as unnatural zest to heapImpious boards with flesh of steer and sheep;When no war-bugle blew its summons shrill,Or forge had fitted hands with swords to kill;When Saturn planted here below his throne—The Age of Gold, when Heaven and Earth were one!
Of all rewards that Heav’n bestows on toil,Which is the peer of yours who till the soil!Would you exchange with them who sue the greatFor place or alms? Read, as they pass the gate,On this face wrath, envy on that, and gall;And, worst, the death of self-respect on all.’Tis yours to breathe an atmosphere of peace,Suitors of earth that knows not of caprice;That grieves to disappoint a hope, and poursInto expectant laps a choice of stores,Sounding changes high and low, grave and gay,On the vast organ Nature loves to play.Learn from a farm to work, and never tire;An acre is various as a shire;Labour and rest there alternating meet,Each indistinguishably good and sweet;Ah! the murmurous quiet in the wideHomesteads, where, in the intervals, besideBubbling brooks, in cool valleys, ’neath green boughsYou slumber, lullabied by lowing cows.Winter anon, earth’s holiday; and thenTo rouse the wild boar in his fenny den:Sport dear to youth’s blood racing fast and pure,Content with simple joys, trained to endure.Nor at one season, but throughout the year,Be sure the Gods fail not of love and fear:While no chimney corner but makes a shrineWhere to tend a grandsire all but divine.If Justice has not yet forsaken Earth,’Tis that she lingers on some cottage hearth!
Of all rewards that Heav’n bestows on toil,
Which is the peer of yours who till the soil!
Would you exchange with them who sue the great
For place or alms? Read, as they pass the gate,
On this face wrath, envy on that, and gall;
And, worst, the death of self-respect on all.
’Tis yours to breathe an atmosphere of peace,
Suitors of earth that knows not of caprice;
That grieves to disappoint a hope, and pours
Into expectant laps a choice of stores,
Sounding changes high and low, grave and gay,
On the vast organ Nature loves to play.
Learn from a farm to work, and never tire;
An acre is various as a shire;
Labour and rest there alternating meet,
Each indistinguishably good and sweet;
Ah! the murmurous quiet in the wide
Homesteads, where, in the intervals, beside
Bubbling brooks, in cool valleys, ’neath green boughs
You slumber, lullabied by lowing cows.
Winter anon, earth’s holiday; and then
To rouse the wild boar in his fenny den:
Sport dear to youth’s blood racing fast and pure,
Content with simple joys, trained to endure.
Nor at one season, but throughout the year,
Be sure the Gods fail not of love and fear:
While no chimney corner but makes a shrine
Where to tend a grandsire all but divine.
If Justice has not yet forsaken Earth,
’Tis that she lingers on some cottage hearth!
Ancestral guardians of my home forgive,Pan, too, and Sylvan, if I do not liveThe life I praise; but ere I knew its charms,The choir of Muses wooed me to their arms,Taught me an eager child their sacred lore,Arts I still love; and fain had taught me more—To map Heav’n’s paths, number its stars, and traceWhy wanes the moon; when veils the sun his face,Hastes purple-clad to sink on Ocean’s breast,And stays Night’s course for him and Man to rest;Where growling earthquakes breed; and why seas feignTo roar in wrath, and straightway laugh again.—Something I learned; and blest had been my state,If gifted with the will and powers by FateTo follow Nature to her primal cause,And coax from her the meaning of her laws;Like him, too early lost, who told us howTo spurn at all it is not Man’s to know,To count it shame to dread Death, as to weepAt putting off our shoes to go to sleep.But my blood chills—poor thing, it cannot findAir it may breathe—where soars aloft sheer Mind.Yet why lament that the Seer’s part is notFor me, when mine the sweet, if humbler, lot—To light and feed a poet’s holy fire;Rapt from myself to feel a God inspireThe visions that I see, the words I pen—The message that I bring my fellow men—Bound, if the Muse decrees, to soar awayWhere rolls Spercheios, or girls dance and playOn Spartan hills, or to some forest dellOf snowy Hæmus; while, I know it well,That far so ever as I seem to roam,My spirit always will return to home,Predestined to no inglorious themes—My native fields, and woods, and sparkling streams,And the race no less that those vales frequent,Simple husbandmen, wholly innocentOf ill, though shrewd, keen to resent a wrong;For whom I meditate my pastoral song.Fancy will wander oft to lands unknown,But finds the thoughts to dwell on in its own.Italian peasant I, and would rehearseOur peasants’ virtues in Italian verse.
Ancestral guardians of my home forgive,
Pan, too, and Sylvan, if I do not live
The life I praise; but ere I knew its charms,
The choir of Muses wooed me to their arms,
Taught me an eager child their sacred lore,
Arts I still love; and fain had taught me more—
To map Heav’n’s paths, number its stars, and trace
Why wanes the moon; when veils the sun his face,
Hastes purple-clad to sink on Ocean’s breast,
And stays Night’s course for him and Man to rest;
Where growling earthquakes breed; and why seas feign
To roar in wrath, and straightway laugh again.—
Something I learned; and blest had been my state,
If gifted with the will and powers by Fate
To follow Nature to her primal cause,
And coax from her the meaning of her laws;
Like him, too early lost, who told us how
To spurn at all it is not Man’s to know,
To count it shame to dread Death, as to weep
At putting off our shoes to go to sleep.
But my blood chills—poor thing, it cannot find
Air it may breathe—where soars aloft sheer Mind.
Yet why lament that the Seer’s part is not
For me, when mine the sweet, if humbler, lot—
To light and feed a poet’s holy fire;
Rapt from myself to feel a God inspire
The visions that I see, the words I pen—
The message that I bring my fellow men—
Bound, if the Muse decrees, to soar away
Where rolls Spercheios, or girls dance and play
On Spartan hills, or to some forest dell
Of snowy Hæmus; while, I know it well,
That far so ever as I seem to roam,
My spirit always will return to home,
Predestined to no inglorious themes—
My native fields, and woods, and sparkling streams,
And the race no less that those vales frequent,
Simple husbandmen, wholly innocent
Of ill, though shrewd, keen to resent a wrong;
For whom I meditate my pastoral song.
Fancy will wander oft to lands unknown,
But finds the thoughts to dwell on in its own.
Italian peasant I, and would rehearse
Our peasants’ virtues in Italian verse.
Let me recall a neighbour good and kind,Loving the ancient methods, disinclinedTo quit his fathers’ ways; nor bard nor sage;Who just has served the soil from youth to age.No Mysteries for him; enough to adoreThe rustic Gods his sires revered of yore.All one to him who shall the Consul be—This or that—our Rome stands eternally.He cares not about Kings; so much he knows;Rome crowned; and, when she wills, Rome can depose.Faint echoes reach the country from the TownOf swarms of Dacian pirates rowing downIster; and of brothers by brothers slain;Cæsar’s charge that—and his to garner grain.Sometimes the calm is broken by the wealthOf courtiers seeking country air for health;Why envy when the whole that they possessHas not distilled a drop of happiness!Or one may stumble by, diseased and old,With scarce a rag to shield him from the cold;The good-man helps; he pities; does not grieve;Is grateful he can give, need not receive.Statesmen will strive, he counts his orchard’s yield,And reaps his harvest from the willing field.A realm may fall, loud lawyers rule the Court,Heirships be changed by some forgot report,Adventurers new seas explore, or rushOn foreign swords in thirst for gold, or pushInto proud palace halls; while he insteadDrives his curved plough, and mows the yellow mead.Hence herds deserving well their ample cheer,With all the genial labours of the year.Hence too the tribute that he gladly bringsTo his Penates, modest offerings—Kind “Little People,” blest where’er ye comeCompacted of an atmosphere of Home!Hence, above all, what may his native landOf labour, store, nay, of his life demand!True Roman, few as he of Rome so proud;None readier to give her goods and blood!Meantime no season comes without its call;Not one would he away; he loves them all—Cries between laugh and wail from lambs new-born,Sheaves in the close-packed barn of golden corn,Groans of content from home-returning sows,The woodlands’ crackling thuds of severed boughs,Pyramids of red apples, row on row,And vineyards purpling in late Autumn’s glow,Till with the olives’ rendering of oilWinter winds up the victories of toil.Content the master, with glad welcoming eyes,As crop to crop succeeds, each a surprise,Yet taking each its place in order clear,The grand procession of the fruitful year!
Let me recall a neighbour good and kind,
Loving the ancient methods, disinclined
To quit his fathers’ ways; nor bard nor sage;
Who just has served the soil from youth to age.
No Mysteries for him; enough to adore
The rustic Gods his sires revered of yore.
All one to him who shall the Consul be—
This or that—our Rome stands eternally.
He cares not about Kings; so much he knows;
Rome crowned; and, when she wills, Rome can depose.
Faint echoes reach the country from the Town
Of swarms of Dacian pirates rowing down
Ister; and of brothers by brothers slain;
Cæsar’s charge that—and his to garner grain.
Sometimes the calm is broken by the wealth
Of courtiers seeking country air for health;
Why envy when the whole that they possess
Has not distilled a drop of happiness!
Or one may stumble by, diseased and old,
With scarce a rag to shield him from the cold;
The good-man helps; he pities; does not grieve;
Is grateful he can give, need not receive.
Statesmen will strive, he counts his orchard’s yield,
And reaps his harvest from the willing field.
A realm may fall, loud lawyers rule the Court,
Heirships be changed by some forgot report,
Adventurers new seas explore, or rush
On foreign swords in thirst for gold, or push
Into proud palace halls; while he instead
Drives his curved plough, and mows the yellow mead.
Hence herds deserving well their ample cheer,
With all the genial labours of the year.
Hence too the tribute that he gladly brings
To his Penates, modest offerings—
Kind “Little People,” blest where’er ye come
Compacted of an atmosphere of Home!
Hence, above all, what may his native land
Of labour, store, nay, of his life demand!
True Roman, few as he of Rome so proud;
None readier to give her goods and blood!
Meantime no season comes without its call;
Not one would he away; he loves them all—
Cries between laugh and wail from lambs new-born,
Sheaves in the close-packed barn of golden corn,
Groans of content from home-returning sows,
The woodlands’ crackling thuds of severed boughs,
Pyramids of red apples, row on row,
And vineyards purpling in late Autumn’s glow,
Till with the olives’ rendering of oil
Winter winds up the victories of toil.
Content the master, with glad welcoming eyes,
As crop to crop succeeds, each a surprise,
Yet taking each its place in order clear,
The grand procession of the fruitful year!
Harmonious whole, made up, hopes and cares,Mind’s, Body’s work, in not unequal shares;With grateful pauses, as when whirlwinds ceaseTo riot in a wood, and there is peace.Thus Eve; Man’s truce, nor his alone, for play;But Nature’s universal holiday.Stall-wards, devious steps, the cattle pass,Their udders richly furnished; on the grassWith harmless horns kids wrestle; while a band,Children and Wife, contend to clasp his hand,And kiss his lips; he happy in the prideOf love which chastity has sanctified.And days as well there are, when the farm feasts,The host reclining amid friends, his guests;High flame the hissing logs, wine-cups are crowned,And vows and healths to Gods and men go round;On equal terms master with shepherds vies,As archer, or as wrestler, for a prize.Thus sprang a race, the wonder of the earth,Suckled by Sabine mothers—as, at birth,Their king by wild werewolf—twin strains with those,Blending of Tuscan lords, high Lucumos;Till from Seven Hills, in one wall, see come,Mistress of a world, Imperial Rome!Noblest of Monsters! beautiful as brave,And strong at once to conquer, and to save.
Harmonious whole, made up, hopes and cares,
Mind’s, Body’s work, in not unequal shares;
With grateful pauses, as when whirlwinds cease
To riot in a wood, and there is peace.
Thus Eve; Man’s truce, nor his alone, for play;
But Nature’s universal holiday.
Stall-wards, devious steps, the cattle pass,
Their udders richly furnished; on the grass
With harmless horns kids wrestle; while a band,
Children and Wife, contend to clasp his hand,
And kiss his lips; he happy in the pride
Of love which chastity has sanctified.
And days as well there are, when the farm feasts,
The host reclining amid friends, his guests;
High flame the hissing logs, wine-cups are crowned,
And vows and healths to Gods and men go round;
On equal terms master with shepherds vies,
As archer, or as wrestler, for a prize.
Thus sprang a race, the wonder of the earth,
Suckled by Sabine mothers—as, at birth,
Their king by wild werewolf—twin strains with those,
Blending of Tuscan lords, high Lucumos;
Till from Seven Hills, in one wall, see come,
Mistress of a world, Imperial Rome!
Noblest of Monsters! beautiful as brave,
And strong at once to conquer, and to save.
Yet sometimes dream I legends strange and sweet,Ere Nymphs nursed Jove upon a hill of Crete,Of days when Earth, a garden bright and fair,Gave Man fruits as easily as the airHe breathed; when all that trod or flew had partIn a large brotherhood of sense and heart,And it could scarce have seemed to human mindMore hideous to batten on its kind,Than with as unnatural zest to heapImpious boards with flesh of steer and sheep;When no war-bugle blew its summons shrill,Or forge had fitted hands with swords to kill;When Saturn planted here below his throne—The Age of Gold, when Heaven and Earth were one!
Yet sometimes dream I legends strange and sweet,
Ere Nymphs nursed Jove upon a hill of Crete,
Of days when Earth, a garden bright and fair,
Gave Man fruits as easily as the air
He breathed; when all that trod or flew had part
In a large brotherhood of sense and heart,
And it could scarce have seemed to human mind
More hideous to batten on its kind,
Than with as unnatural zest to heap
Impious boards with flesh of steer and sheep;
When no war-bugle blew its summons shrill,
Or forge had fitted hands with swords to kill;
When Saturn planted here below his throne—
The Age of Gold, when Heaven and Earth were one!