OH happy (if his happiness he knows) The country swain, on whom kind Heaven bestows At home all riches that wise Nature needs; Whom the just earth with easy plenty feeds. ’Tis true, no morning tide of clients comes, And fills the painted channels of his rooms, Adoring the rich figures, as they pass, In tapestry wrought, or cut in living brass; Nor is his wool superfluously dyed With the dear poison of Assyrian pride: Nor do Arabian perfumes vainly spoil The native use and sweetness of his oil. Instead of these, his calm and harmless life, Free from th’ alarms of fear, and storms of strife, Does with substantial blessedness abound, And the soft wings of peace cover him round: Through artless grots the murmuring waters glide; Thick trees both against heat and cold provide, From whence the birds salute him; and his ground With lowing herds, and bleating sheep does sound; And all the rivers, and the forests nigh, Both food and game and exercise supply. Here a well-hardened, active youth we see, Taught the great art of cheerful poverty. Here, in this place alone, there still do shine Some streaks of love, both human and divine; From hence Astræa took her flight, and here Still her last footsteps upon earth appear. ’Tis true, the first desire which does control All the inferior wheels that move my soul, Is, that the Muse me her high priest would make; Into her holiest scenes of mystery take, And open there to my mind’s purgèd eye Those wonders which to sense the gods deny; How in the moon such chance of shapes is found The moon, the changing world’s eternal bound. What shakes the solid earth, what strong disease Dares trouble the firm centre’s ancient ease; What makes the sea retreat, and what advance: Varieties too regular for chance. What drives the chariot on of winter’s light, And stops the lazy waggon of the night. But if my dull and frozen blood deny To send forth spirits that raise a soul so high; In the next place, let woods and rivers be My quiet, though unglorious, destiny. In life’s cool vale let my low scene be laid; Cover me, gods, with Tempe’s thickest shade Happy the man, I grant, thrice happy he Who can through gross effects their causes see: Whose courage from the deeps of knowledge springs. Nor vainly fears inevitable things; But does his walk of virtue calmly go, Through all th’ alarms of death and hell below. Happy! but next such conquerors, happy they, Whose humble life lies not in fortune’s way. They unconcerned from their safe distant seat Behold the rods and sceptres of the great. The quarrels of the mighty, without fear, And the descent of foreign troops they hear. Nor can even Rome their steady course misguide, With all the lustre of her perishing pride. Them never yet did strife or avarice draw Into the noisy markets of the law,