At thy call, my Italy, parent, nurse, Unsealing primal well-heads, I rehearse Pure rustic themes long since discoursed upon Myrtle-clad slopes of musical Helicon! Happy Husbandmen Georgicon, Bk. II. vv. 458-540 Of all rewards that Heav’n bestows on toil, Which is the peer of yours who till the soil! Would you exchange with them who sue the great For place or alms? Read, as they pass the gate, On this face wrath, envy on that, and gall; And, worst, the death of self-respect on all. ’Tis yours to breathe an atmosphere of peace, Suitors of earth that knows not of caprice; That grieves to disappoint a hope, and pours Into expectant laps a choice of stores, Sounding changes high and low, grave and gay, On the vast organ Nature loves to play. Learn from a farm to work, and never tire; An acre is various as a shire; Labour and rest there alternating meet, Each indistinguishably good and sweet; Ah! the murmurous quiet in the wide Homesteads, where, in the intervals, beside Bubbling brooks, in cool valleys, ’neath green boughs You slumber, lullabied by lowing cows. Winter anon, earth’s holiday; and then To rouse the wild boar in his fenny den: Sport dear to youth’s blood racing fast and pure, Content with simple joys, trained to endure. Nor at one season, but throughout the year, Be sure the Gods fail not of love and fear: While no chimney corner but makes a shrine Where to tend a grandsire all but divine. If Justice has not yet forsaken Earth, ’Tis that she lingers on some cottage hearth!