| |
| FROM the soft shades, and from the balmy sweets | |
| Of Medford’s flowery vales, and green retreats, | |
| Your absent Delia to her father sends | |
| And prays to see him ere the Summer ends. | |
| |
| Now while the earth’s with beauteous verdure dyed, | 5 |
| And Flora paints the meads in all her pride; | |
| While laden trees Pomona’s bounty own, | |
| And Ceres’ treasures do the fields adorn, | |
| From the thick smokes, and noisy town, O come, | |
| And in these plains awhile forget your home. | 10 |
| |
| Though my small incomes never can afford, | |
| Like wealthy Celsus to regale a lord; | |
| No ivory tables groan beneath the weight | |
| Of sumptuous dishes, served in massy plate: | |
| The forest ne’er was search’d for food for me, | 15 |
| Nor from my hounds the timorous hare does flee: | |
| No leaden thunder strikes the fowl in air, | |
| Nor from my shaft the winged death do fear: | |
| With silken nets I ne’er the lakes despoil, | |
| Nor with my bait the larger fish beguile. | 20 |
| No luscious sweetmeats, by my servants plac’d | |
| In curious order e’er my table grac’d; | |
| To please the taste, no rich Burgundian wine, | |
| In chrystal glasses on my sideboard shine; | |
| The luscious sweets of fair Canary’s isle | 25 |
| Ne’er fill’d my casks, nor in my flagons smile: | |
| No wine, but what does from my apples flow, | |
| My frugal house on any can bestow: | |
| Except when Cæsar’s birth day does return, | |
| And joyful fires throughout the village burn; | 30 |
| Then moderate each takes his cheerful glass, | |
| And our good wishes to Augustus pass. | |
| |
| But though rich dainties never spread my board, | |
| Nor my cool vaults Calabrian wines afford; | |
| Yet what is neat and wholesome I can spread, | 35 |
| My good fat bacon and our homely bread, | |
| With which my healthful family is fed. | |
| Milk from the cow, and butter newly churn’d, | |
| And new fresh cheese, with curds and cream just turn’d. | |
| For a dessert upon my table ’s seen | 40 |
| The golden apple, and the melon green; | |
| The blushing peach and glossy plum there lies, | |
| And with the mandrake tempt your hands and eyes. | |
| |
| These I can give, and if you ’ll here repair, | |
| To slake your thirst a cask of Autumn beer, | 45 |
| Reserv’d on purpose for your drinking here. | |
| |
| Under the spreading elms our limbs we ’ll lay, | |
| While fragrant Zephyrs round our temples play. | |
| Retir’d from courts, and crowds, secure we ’ll set, | |
| And freely feed upon our country treat. | 50 |
| No noisy faction here shall dare intrude, | |
| Or once disturb our peaceful solitude. | |
| |
| No stately beds my humble roofs adorn | |
| Of costly purple, by carved panthers borne; | |
| Nor can I boast Arabia’s rich perfumes, | 55 |
| Diffusing odors through our stately rooms. | |
| For me no fair Egyptian plies the loom, | |
| But my fine linen all is made at home. | |
| Though I no down or tapestry can spread, | |
| A clean soft pillow shall support your head, | 60 |
| Fill’d with the wool from off my tender sheep, | |
| On which with ease and safety you may sleep. | |
| The nightingale shall lull you to your rest, | |
| And all be calm and still as is your breast. | |
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