Poems by Sir W.T.

VIRGIL'S O Fortunati, &c. TRANSLATED, OR RATHER, IMITATED, upon the Desire OF My LADY TEMPLE.

O Happy Swains, if their own good they knew! Whom far from jarring Arms the just and due

Returns of well fraught fields, with easie fare Supply, and chearfull 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 First beg the Porter's, then the Master's ear? What though no stately Pile amuse the eye Of every gazer? Though no scarlet dye Stain the soft native whiteness of the wool, Nor greedy Painter ever rob the full Untainted bowls of liquid Olives juice Destin'd for Altars, and for Tables use; Though the bright dawn of Gold be not begun, And nothing shine about the House but Sun; Yet secure peace reward of harmless life, Yet various sorts of Treasures free from strife Or envy, careless leisure, spatious plains, Cool shades and flow'ry walks along the veins

Of branched streams, yet soft and fearless sleep Amidst the tender bleating of the sheep Want not; There hollow gloomy groves appear, And wilder Thickets, where the staring Deer Dare close their Eyes. There Youth to homely fare, And patient labour, Age to chearfull care Accustom'd, Sacred rights, and humble fear Of Gods above, Fair Truth and Justice there Trod their last footsteps when they left the earth, Which to a Thousand mischiefs gave a birth. For me the Muses are my first desire, Whose gentle favour can with holy fire, Guide to great Nature's deep mysterious Cells Through paths untrac'd, 'tis the chaste Muse that tells Poor groveling mortals how the Stars above Some keep their Station some unwearied move

Through the vast azure plains, and what obscures The mid-day Sun, how the faint Moon endures So many changes, and so many fears As by the paleness of her face appears. What shakes the bowels of the groaning earth, What gives the Thunder, what the Hail a birth, Why the winds sometimes whistle, sometimes rore, What makes the raging waves now brave it o'er The tow'ring Cliffs, now calmly backwards creep Into the spatious bosome of the deep. But if cold blood about my heart shall damp This noble heat of rifling Nature's Camp, Then give me shady groves, and purling streams And airy downs, Then far from scorching beams Of envy, noise, or Cities busie fry, Careless and nameless let me live and dye. Oh where! where are the fields, the waving veins Of gentle mounts amidst the smoother Plains?

The Nymphs fair Walks, Oh! for the shady Vale Of some proud Hill, some fresh reviving gale; Oh who will lead me? Whither shall I run, To find the Woods, and shrowd me from the Sun? Happy the man that Gods and causes knows, Nature's and Reasons Laws, that scorns the blows Of fate or chance, lives without smiles or tears, Above fond hopes, above distracting fears. Happy the Swain that knows no higher powers Than Pan, or old Sylvanus, and the bowers Of rural Nymphs so oft by Satyrs griev'd (All this unseen perhaps, but well believ'd) Him move not Princes frowns, nor Peoples heats, Nor faithless civil jars, nor foreign threats; Not Rome's affairs, nor transitory Crowns, The fall of Princes, or the rise of Clowns, All's one to him; nor grieves he at the sad Events he hears, nor envies at the glad.

What fruits the laden boughs, the willing fields; What pleasures Innocence and Freedom yields, He safely gathers, neither skills the feat Of Arms, or Laws, nor labours, but to eat. Some rove through unknown Seas with swelling Sails; Some wait on Courts and the uncertain gales Of Princes favour; others led by charms Of greedy Honour, follow fatal Arms. 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 worse than his foe. Another breaks the banks, lets all run out But to be talkt and gaz'd on by the rout. Some sow Sedition, blow up civil broils, And venture Exile, Death, and endless toils, Onely to sleep in Scarlet, drink in Gold, Though other fair pretences may be told.

Mean while the Swain rises at early dawn, And turns his fallow, or breaks up the lawn With crooked Plough, buries the hopefull 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 Winters Wine: Visits the lowing Herd, these for the pale, Those for the yoke designs, the rest for sale: Each season of the sliding year his pains Divides, each season shares his equal gains. The youthfull Spring scatters the tender Lambs About the fields; the parching Summer crambs His spatious barns; Bacchus the Autumn crowns; And fair Pomona; when the Winter frowns And curls his rugged brow with hoary frost, Then are his feasts, then thoughts and cares are lost In friendly Bowls, then he receives the hire Of his years labour by a chearfull fire.

Or else abroad he tries the arts and toils Of War, with trusty Dog, and Spear, he foils The grizly Boar, with Traps, and Trains, and Nets, The greedy Wolf, the wily Fox besets. At home he leaves, at home he finds a Wife Sharer of all that's good or bad in life; Prudent and chast, yet gentle, easie, kind, Much in his eye, and always of his mind; He feeds no others children for his own; These have his kisses, these his cares; he's known Little abroad, and less desires to know; Friend to himself, to no man else a foe. Easie his labours, harmless are his plays. Just are his deeds, healthy, and long his days: His end nor wisht nor fear'd; he knows no odds 'Tween life and death, but e'en as please the gods. Among such Swains Saturn the Sceptre bore; Such customs made the golden age, before

Trumpets were heard, or Swords seen to decide Quarrels of Lust, or Avarice, or Pride; Or cruel men began to stain their feasts With bloud and slaughter of poor harmless beasts; Thus liv'd the ancient Sabines, thus the bold Etrurians, so renown'd and fear'd of old. Thus Romulus, and thus auspicious Rome From slender low beginnings, by the doom Of fates, to such prodigious greatness came, Bounded by Heav'ns, and Seas, and vaster fame. But hold! for why the Country Swain alone Though he be blest, cares not to have it known.