Form’d on the Samian school, or those of Ind, There are who think these pastimes scarce humane. Yet in my mind (and not relentless I) His life is pure that wears no fouler stains. 100 But if thro’ genuine tenderness of heart, Or secret want of relish for the game, You shun the glories of the chace, nor care To haunt the peopled stream; the garden yields A soft amusement, an humane delight. 105 To raise th’ insipid nature of the ground; Or tame its savage genius to the grace Of careless sweet rusticity, that seems The amiable result of happy chance, Is to create; and gives a god-like joy, 110 Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain To check the lawless riot of the trees, To plant the grove, or turn the barren mould. O happy he! whom, when his years decline, (His fortune and his fame by worthy means 115 Attain’d, and equal to his moderate mind; His life approv’d by all the wise and good, Even envied by the vain) the peaceful groves Of Epicurus, from this stormy world, Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares 120 Absolv’d, and sacred from the selfish crowd. Happiest of men! if the same soil invites A chosen few, companions of his youth, Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends; With whom in easy commerce to pursue 125 Nature’s free charms, and vie for sylvan fame: A fair ambition; void of strife or guile, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone. Who plans th’ enchanted garden, who directs The visto best, and best conducts the stream; 130 Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend; Whom first the welcome spring salutes; who shews The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms, Of Flora; who best gives Pomona’s juice To match the sprightly genius of Champain. 135 Thrice happy days! in rural business past. Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fire Chears the wide hall, his cordial family With soft domestic arts the hours beguile, And pleasing talk that starts no timerous fame, 140 With witless wantoness to hunt it down: Or thro’ the fairy-land of tale or song Delighted wander, in fictitious fates Engag’d, and all that strikes humanity; Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour 145 Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve, His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid His festal roof; while, o’er the light repast, And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy; And, thro’ the maze of conversation, trace 150 Whate’er amuses or improves the mind. Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste The native zest and flavour of the fruit, Where sense grows wild, and takes of no manure) The decent, honest, chearful husbandman 155