Classic Poem

Blest! Husbandman, whose frugal Hands have till'd
(His Life's Imployment) his Paternal Field!
The Cottage and the Roof that did behold
His Infant Years, now see him very Old:
Propp'd on his Staff, he numbers o'er, intent,
The many Years within that Cottage spent.

With Fortune did he never wish to roam,
For ever wandered from his peaceful Home;
Nor fear'd Sea Storms, nor heard th' Alarms of War
Nor the hoarse Wrangling of the noisy Bar.

Rude to the World, and Stranger to its Care,
He breathes, in open Skies, untainted Air.

By Seasons, only, he computes the Year,
Flowers shew the Spring, and Fruits the Autumn near
In the same Field, at Work he do's survey
The rising Sun, and marks his setting Ray;
And his own Labour measures out the Day.

Tall sturdy Oaks, but slender Twigs, he knew
He and the Forest Old together grew.

Near to his blest Abode Verona stands,
Yet distant, seems, to him, as India 's Lands.
Benacus Lake, which glads his Neighbourhood,
He counts remoter than the Persic Flood.
Mean Time the Hale, old Sire delights to see
Grandsons a long vig'rous Progeny.

Who Rambles, only knows Fatigue and Noise;
It Home, who rests contented, Life enjoys.