Some, through ambition, or through thirst of gold, Have slain their brothers, or their country sold, And, leaving their sweet homes, in exile run To lands that lie beneath another sun. The peasant, innocent of all these ills, } With crooked ploughs the fertile fallows tills, } And the round year with daily labour fills. } From hence the country markets are supplied: Enough remains for household charge beside, His wife and tender children to sustain. And gratefully to feed his dumb deserving train. Nor cease his labours, till the yellow field A full return of bearded harvest yield-- A crop so plenteous, as the land to load, O'ercome the crowded barns, and lodge on ricks abroad. Thus every several season is employed, Some spent in toil, and some in ease enjoyed. The yeaning ewes prevent the springing year: The laded boughs their fruits in autumn bear: 'Tis then the vine her liquid harvest yields, Baked in the sun-shine of ascending fields. The winter comes; and then the falling mast For greedy swine provides a full repast: Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast, And winter fruits are mellowed by the frost. His cares are eased with intervals of bliss; His little children, climbing for a kiss, Welcome their father's late return at night; His faithful bed is crowned with chaste delight. His kine with swelling udders ready stand, And, lowing for the pail, invite the milker's hand. His wanton kids, with budding horns prepared, Fight harmless battles in his homely yard: Himself, in rustic pomp, on holidays, } To rural powers a just oblation pays, } And on the green his careless limbs displays. } The hearth is in the midst; the herdsmen, round The cheerful fire, provoke his health in goblets crown'd. He calls on Bacchus, and propounds the prize; } The groom his fellow-groom at buts defies, } And bends his bow, and levels with his eyes; } Or, stript for wrestling, smears his limbs with oil, And watches, with a trip his foe to foil. Such was the life the frugal Sabines led; So Remus and his brother god were bred, From whom the austere Etrurian virtue rose; And this rude life our homely fathers chose. Old Rome from such a race derived her birth, (The seat of empire, and the conquered earth,) Which now on seven high hills triumphant reigns, And in that compass all the world contains. Ere Saturn's rebel son usurped the skies, When beasts were only slain for sacrifice, While peaceful Crete enjoyed her ancient lord, Ere sounding hammers forged the inhuman sword, Ere hollow drums were beat, before the breath Of brazen trumpets rung the peals of death, The good old god his hunger did assuage With roots and herbs, and gave the golden age. But, over-laboured with so long a course,