Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 098.djvu/359

Rh Nor by the savage trump in the camp is rous'd.

Nor quails at the angry billows;

And shuns the forum, and the thresholds proud

Of citizens overweening.

But he the vine's glad upgrown progeny

Weds to the lofty poplars,

And with his curv'd knife pruning useless boughs,

Engrafts more hopeful scions:

Or in the vale's broad bosom views afar

The deep-voiced cattle roaming,

Or in pure jars the well-prest honey stores,

Or shears the helpless bleaters:

Or from the fields when Autumn rears her head

With mellow fruitage comely.

How joys he, plucking his engrafted pears

And grape that vies with purple.

To honour thee, Priapus! and thee, sire,

Silvanus, guard of landmarks!

Now beneath ancient holm he lists to lie,

Now in the clinging herbage.

In their deep banks the meanwhile glide the streams,

The birds moan in the thickets;

With trickling element pure babble the springs,

Inviting gentle slumbers.

But when the wintry hour of thundering Jove

Its rainy snows amasses.

Then he the eager boar with scurrying hounds

Drives to the toils encircling,

Or with smooth pole spreads the thin nets aloft,

Snare for the greedy thrushes.

Or in his noose (sweet prize!) the frightened hare

And stranger crane imprisons.

Mid such employ who not the evil cares

Forgets, which Love engenders?

But if, besides, a chaste and helpful mate

House and sweet children order,—

As Sabine woman, or the sunburnt wife

Of Appulan untiring.

Piles with old logs the sacred hearth, to greet

Her weary lord's arrival,—

Who, penning the kind flock in wattled crate,

Drains their distended udders,

Then wine of this year's vintage drawing, crowns

The board with unbought dainties;

Me not so much will Lucrine oysters please,

Or delicate char or turbot,

Should winter, rumbling in the Eastern waves,

Such to this sea have carried.

No bird of Afric down my throat will glide,

No moorcock of Ionia,

Sweeter than olives pick'd from boughs which hang

With luscious treasure loaded,

Or mallows, wholesome to the sickly frame,

And meadow-loving sorrel,

Or kidling rescued from the wolf, or lamb

To festal Terminus slaughter'd.