Or when Autumnus o'er the smiling land Lifts up his head with rosy apples crowned, Joyful he plucks the pears, which erst his hand Graffed on the stem they're weighing to the ground; Plucks grapes in noble clusters purple-dyed, A gift for thee, Priapus, and for thee, Father Sylvanus, where thou dost preside, Warding his bounds beneath thy sacred tree. Now he may stretch his careless limbs to rest, Where some old ilex spreads its sacred roof; Now in the sunshine lie, as likes him best, On grassy turf of close elastic woof. And streams the while glide on with murmurs low, And birds are singing 'mong the thickets deep, And fountains babble, sparkling as they flow, And with their noise invite to gentle sleep. But when grim winter comes, and o'er his grounds Scatters its biting snows with angry roar, He takes the field, and with a cry of hounds Hunts down into the toils the foaming boar; Or seeks the thrush, poor starveling, to ensnare, In filmy net with bait delusive stored, Entraps the travelled crane, and timorous hare, Rare dainties these to glad his frugal board. Who amid joys like these would not forget The pangs which love to all its victims bears, The fever of the brain, the ceaseless fret, And all the heart's lamentings and despairs? But if a chaste and blooming wife, beside, The cheerful home with sweet young blossoms fills, Like some stout Sabine, or the sunburnt bride Of the lithe peasant of the Apulian hills, Who piles the hearth with logs well dried and old Against the coming of her wearied lord, And, when at eve the cattle seek the fold, Drains their full udders of the milky hoard; And bringing forth from her well-tended store A jar of wine, the vintage of the year, Spreads an unpurchased feast,--oh then, not more Could choicest Lucrine oysters give me cheer, Or the rich turbot, or the dainty char, If ever to our bays the winter's blast Should drive them in its fury from afar; Nor were to me a welcomer repast The Afric hen or the Ionic snipe, Than olives newly gathered from the tree, That hangs abroad its clusters rich and ripe, Or sorrel, that doth love the pleasant lea, Or mallows wholesome for the body's need, Or lamb foredoomed upon some festal day In offering to the guardian gods to bleed, Or kidling which the wolf hath marked for prey. What joy, amidst such feasts, to see the sheep, Full of the pasture, hurrying homewards come; To see the wearied oxen, as they creep, Dragging the upturned ploughshare slowly home! Or, ranged around the bright and blazing hearth, To see the hinds, a house's surest wealth, Beguile the evening with their simple mirth, And all the cheerfulness of rosy health!