Classic Poem

Let others pile their yellow ingots high,
And see their cultured acres round them spread;
While hostile borderers draw their anxious eye,
And at the trumpet's blast their sleep is fled!

Me let my poverty to ease resign;
While my bright hearth reflects its blazing cheer;
In season let me plant the pliant vine,
And, with light hand, my swelling apples rear!

Hope, fail not thou! let earth her fruitage yield;
Let the brimmed vat flow red with virgin wine:
For, still, some lone bare stump that marks the field,
Or antique cross-way stone, with flowers I twine,

In pious rite; and, when the year anew
Matures the blossom on the budding spray;
I bear the peasant's God his grateful due;
And firstling fruits upon his altar lay.

Still let thy temple's porch, O Ceres! wear
The spiky garland from my harvest field;
And, midst my orchard, against the birds of air,
His threatening hook let red Priapus wield!

Ye too, once guardians of a rich domain,
Now of poor fields, domestic Gods! be kind!
Then, for unnumbered herds, a calf was slain;
Now to your altars is a lamb consigned!

The mighty victim of a scanty soil,
A lamb alone shall bleed before your shrine;
While round it shout the youthful sons of toil,
" Hail! grant the harvest! grant the generous wine! "

Content with little, I no more would tread
The lengthening road, but shun the Summer day,
Where some o'erbranching tree might shade my head;
And watch the murmuring rivulet glide away.

Nor could I blush to wield the rustic prong,
The lingering oxen goad; or some stray lamb,
Embosomed in my garment, bear along,
Or kid forgotten by its heedless dam.

Spare my small flocks! ye thieves, and wolves, assail
The wealthier cotes, that ampler booty hold;
Ne'er for my shepherd due lustrations fail;
I soothe with milk the Goddess of the fold.

Be present, Deities! nor gifts disdain
From homely board; nor cups with scorn survey,
Earthen, yet pure; for such the ancient swain
Formed for himself and shaped of ductile clay.

I envy not my sires their golden heap;
Their garners' floors with sheafy corn bespread;
Few sheaves suffice: enough, in easy sleep
To lay my limbs upon the accustomed bed.

How sweet! to hear, without, the howling blast,
And strain a yielding mistress to my breast!
Or, when the gusty torrent's rush has past,
Sink, lulled by beating rains, to sheltered rest!

Be this my lot; be his the unenvied store,
Who the drear storm endures and raging seas;
Ah! perish emeralds and the golden ore,
If the fond anxious nymph must weep for me.

Messala! range the earth and main, that Rome
May shine with trophies of the foes that fell;
But me a beauteous nymph enchains at home,
At her hard door a sleepless sentinel.

I heed not praise, my Delia! while with thee;
Sloth brand my name, so I thy sight behold;
Let me the oxen yoke; oh, come with me!
On desert mountains I will feed my fold.

And, while I prest thee in my tender arms,
Sweet were my slumber on the ragged ground;
What boots the purple couch, if cruel charms
In wakeful tears the midnight hours have drowned?

Not the soft plume can yield the limbs repose,
Nor yet the broidered covering soothe to sleep;
Not the calm streamlet that in murmurs flows,
With sound oblivious o'er the eyelids creep.

Iron is he who might thy form possess,
Yet flies to arms and thirsts for plunder's gains;
What though his spear Cicilian squadrons press,
What though his tent be pitcht on conquered plains;

In gold and silver mail conspicuous he
May stride the steed, that, pawing spurns the sand;
May I my last looks fondly bend on thee,
And grasp thee with my dying, faltering hand!

And thou wilt weep when, cold, I press the bier,
That soon shall on the flaming pyre be thrown;
And print the kiss and mingle many a tear;
Not thine a breast of steel, a heart of stone.

Yes, thou wilt weep! No youths shall thence return
With tearless eye; no virgin homeward wend;
But thou forbear to violate my urn,
Spare thy soft cheeks, nor those loose tresses rend.

Now Fate permits; now blend the sweet embrace;
Death, cowled in darkness, creeps with stealing tread;
Ill suits with sluggish age love's sprightly grace,
And murmured fondness with a hoary head!

The light amour be mine; the shivered door;
The midnight fray; ye trumps and standards, hence!
Here is my camp; bleed they who thirst for ore:
Wealth I despise in easy competence.