VIRGIL'S O FORTUNATOS, &c. *

TRANSLATED, OR RATHER IMITATED,

UPON THE DESIRE OF MY LADY TEMPLE.

BY THE SAME; NOT IN HIS WORKS.

HAPPY fwains, if their own good they knew! Whom, far from jarring arms, the just and due Returns of well-fraught fields with easy fare Supply, and chearful heavens with healthy air: What though no aged title grace the stock; What though no troops of early waiters flock To the proud gates, and with officious fear Firft beg the porter's, then the mafter's ear; What though no ftately pile amufe the eye Of every gazer; though no fcarlet dye Stain the foft native whitenefs of the wool, Nor greedy painter ever rob the full Untainted bowls of liquid olives' juice Deftin'd for altars, and for tables ufe; Though the bright dawn of gold be not begun, And nothing fhine about the house but fun ; Yet fecure peace, reward of harmless life, Yet various forts of treafures free from ftrife Or envy, careless leisure, fpacious plains, Cool fhades and flowery walks along the veins

Georg. II. 458, & feqq.

Of branched ftreams yet foft and fearless sleep
Amidft the tender bleating of the sheep
Want not; there hollow gloomy groves appear,
And wilder thickets, where the staring deer
Dare clofe their eyes; there youth to homely fare,
And patient labour, age to chearful care
Accuftom'd, facred rites, and humble fear

Of Gods above; fair Truth and Juftice there
Trod their last footfteps when they left the earth,
Which to a thousand mifchiefs gave a birth.
For me, the Mufes are my fift defire,
Whofe gentle favour can with holy fire
Guide to great Nature's deep myfterious cells
Through paths untrac'd: 'tis the chafte Mufe that tells
Poor groveling mortals how the fiars above
Some keep their ftation, fome unwearied move
Through the vaft azure plains, and what obfcures
The mid-day fun; how the faint moon endures
So many changes, and fo many fears,
As by the palenefs of her face appears ;

What shakes the bowels of the groaning earth;
What gives the thunder, what the hail a birth;
Why the winds fometimes whiftle, fometimes roar ;
What makes the raging waves now brave it o'er
The towering cliffs, now calmly backwards creep
Into the fpacious bofom of the deep.

But if cold blood about my heart fhall damp
This noble heat of rifling Nature's camp,

Then give me fhady groves, and purling ftreams,
And airy downs; then far from scorching beams

Of

Of envy, noise, or cities bufy fry,

Careless and nameless let me live and die.

Oh, where! where are the fields, the waving veins
Of gentle mounts amidst the smoother plains
The nymphs fair walks? Oh, for the fhady vale
Of fome proud hill, fome fresh reviving gale!
Oh, who will lead me? Whither fhall I run,
To find the woods, and fhroud me from the fun?
Happy the man that Gods and caufes knows,
Nature's and Reafon's laws, that fcorns the blows
Of Fate or Chance, lives without fmiles or tears,
Above fond hopes, above distracting fears.
Happy the fwain that knows no higher powers
Than Pan or old Sylvanus, and the bowers
Of rura! nymphs fo oft by fatires griev'd
(All this unfeen perhaps, but well believ'd);
Him move not princes frowns, nor peoples heats,
Nor faithlefs civil jars, nor foreign threats;
Not Rome's affairs, nor tranfitory crowns,
The fall of princes, or the rife of clowns,
All 's one to him; nor grieves he at the fad
Events he hears, nor envies at the glad.
What fruits the laden boughs, the willing fields,
What pleasures innocence and freedom yields,

He fafely gathers, neither fkills the feat

Of arms or laws, nor labours but to eat.

Some rove through unknown feas with fwelling fails;
Some wait on courts and the uncertain gales

Of princes favour; others, led by charms
Of greedy honour, follow fatal arms.

Soma

Some mount the pulpit, others ply the bar,
And make the arts of peace the arts of war.
One hugs his brooding bags, and feels the woe
He fears, and treats himself worfe than his foe.
Another breaks the banks, lets all run out
But to be talk'd and gaz'd on by the rout.
Some fow fedition, blow up civil broils,
And venture exile, death, and endless toils,
Only to fleep in fcarlet, drink in gold,
Though other fair pretences may be told.
Meanwhile the fwain rifes at early dawn,
And turns his fallow, or breaks up the lawn
With crooked plough, buries the hopeful grain,
Folds his lov'd flock, and lays a wily train
For their old foe; prunes the luxurious vine,
Pleas'd with the thoughts of the next winter's wine -
Vifits the lowing herd, thefe for the pale,
Thofe for the yoke designs, the rest for sale :
Each feason of the fliding year his pains
Divides, each feafon fhares his equal gains.
The youthful fpring scatters the tender lambs
About the fields; the parching fummer crams
His fpacious barns; Bacchus the autumn crowns,
And fair Pomona; when the winter frowns
And curls his rugged brow with hoary froft,
Then are his feafts, then thoughts and cares are loft
In friendly bowls, then he receives the hire

Of his year's labour by a chearful fire.

Or elfe abroad he tries the arts and toils

Of war, with trusty dog and fpear he foils

The

The grizly boar; with traps, and trains, and nets,
The greedy wolf, the wily fox befets.

At home he leaves, at home he finds, a wife
Sharer of all that's good or bad in life;
Prudent and chafte, yet gentle, easy, kind,

Much in his eye, and always of his mind;
He feeds no others children for his own;

These have his kiffes, these his cares; he's known
Little abroad, and lefs defires to know;

Friend to himself, to no man elfe a foe.
Eafy his labours, harmless are his plays,

Just are his deeds, healthy and long his days :
His end nor wifh'd nor fear'd; he knows no odds
'Tween life and death, but ev'n as please the Gods.
Among fuch fwains Saturn the fceptre bore;
Such cuftoms made the golden age, before
Trumpets were heard, or fwords feen to decide.
Quarrels of luft, or avarice, or pride;

Or cruel men began to ftain their feafts

With blood and flaughter of poor harmless beasts ;.
Thus liv'd the ancient Sabines, thus the bold
Etrurians, fo renown'd and fear'd of old.
Thus Romulus, and thus auspicious Rome
From flender low beginnings, by the doom.
Of Fates, to fuch prodigious greatness came,
Bounded by heavens, and feas, and vafter fame.
But hold! for why, the country fwain alone?
Though he be bleft, cares not to have it known.

HORACE,