While, minist'ring to our delight, Nightingales all sweetly sing, And loving doves, with folded wing, Above our heads are heard to coo; And far's the ill-betiding crow. We do not think of cities then. Nor envy the resorts of men,-- Of Italy, the softer pleasures, Of Asia too, the golden treasures, All these are nothing in our eyes; The while a book beside us lies, Which tells the tales of olden time, Of gods and men the hests sublime,-- Æneas' voyage by Virgil told, Or song divine of Homer old, Achilles' wrath and all his glory, Or wandering Ulysses' story, Propertius too, who well indites, And the soft plaints Catullus writes; These will remind me of past grief, Till, thinking of the sweet relief My wedded state confers on me, My bygone 'scapes I careless eye. O what are all those struggles past, The fiery pangs which did not last, Now that I live secure for aye, In my dear wife's sweet company? I have no reason to repine-- My joys are her's, and her's are mine; Our tranquil hearts their feelings share, And all our pleasures mutual are. Our eyes drink in the shady light Of wood, and vale, and grassy height; We hear the waters as they stray, And from the mountains wend their way, Leaping all lightly down the steep, Till at our feet they murm'ring creep; And fanning us, the evening breeze, Plays gamesomely among the trees; While bleating flocks, as day grows cold, Gladly seek their shelt'ring fold. And when the sun is on the hill, And shadows vast the valleys fill, And waning day, grown near its close, Sends tired men to their repose; We to our villa saunt'ring walk, And of the things we see we talk, Our friends come out in gayest cheer, To welcome us--and fain would hear, If my sweet wife be tired--and smile-- Inviting us to rest the while. Then to sup we take our seat, Our table plentiful and neat, Our viands without sauces drest, Good appetite the healthy zest To fruits we've pluck'd in our own bowers, And gaily deck'd with od'rous flowers. And rustic dainties,--many a one. When this is o'er and supper done, The evening passes swift along, In converse gay and sweetest song; Till slumber, stealing to the eye, Bids us to our couches hie. I will not tell what there we do, Even, dearest friend, to you; Enough that lovers ever share Delights when they together are.