XXIII. Medley. ODE. FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE. H OW happy in his low degree, How rich in humble poverty is he, And from the griping scrivener free! Their small paternal field of corn. Nor trumpets summon him to war, Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, Nor knows he merchants' painful care, Nor fears the dangers of the deep. The clamors of contentious law, And court and state, he wisely shuns; Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe, To servile salutations runs ; But either to the clasping vine Does the supporting poplar wed, Unbearing branches from their head, Or climbing to a hilly steep, He views his buds in vales afar, Or shears his overburden'd sheep, Or mead for cooling drink prepares Of virgin honey in the jars; Or, in the now declining year, When beauteous Autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear And clust'ring grapes, with purple spread. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak, Or on the matted grass, he lies; No god of Sleep he need invoke ; The stream that o'er the pebble flies, With gentle slumber crowns his eyes, The wind that whistles through the sprays Maintains the concert of the song; And hidden birds, with native lays, The golden sleep prolong. But when the blast of winter blows, Into the naked woods he goes, And seeks the tusky boar to near, With well-mouthed hounds and pointed spear! Or spreads his subtile nets from sight, Or makes the fearful bear his prey. No anxious care invades his health, To business of his life, Divides with him his household care, Such as the Sabine matrons were, Such as the swift Apulian's bride, Sunburnt and swarthy though she be, Will fire for winter nights provide, And-without noise-will oversee His children and his family; And then produce her dairy store, And unbought dainties for the poor; Not oysters of the Lucrine lake My sober appetite would wish, That rolling tempests overtake, And hither waft the costly dish. Than the fat olives of my fields; That keep the loosened body sound; To the just guardian of my ground. That sit around his cheerful hearth, This Alphius said within himself, But the prevailing love of pelf, Soon split him on the former shelf- Translation of DRYDEN. LETTER OF SIR THOMAS MORE TO HIS WIFE. Mistress Alice, in my most hearty wise I recommend me to you. And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our barns and our neighbours' also, with all the corn that was therein; albeit (saving God's |