Let me recall a neighbour good and kind, Loving the ancient methods, disinclined To quit his fathers’ ways; nor bard nor sage; Who just has served the soil from youth to age. No Mysteries for him; enough to adore The rustic Gods his sires revered of yore. All one to him who shall the Consul be— This or that—our Rome stands eternally. He cares not about Kings; so much he knows; Rome crowned; and, when she wills, Rome can depose. Faint echoes reach the country from the Town Of swarms of Dacian pirates rowing down Ister; and of brothers by brothers slain; Cæsar’s charge that—and his to garner grain. Sometimes the calm is broken by the wealth Of courtiers seeking country air for health; Why envy when the whole that they possess Has not distilled a drop of happiness! Or one may stumble by, diseased and old, With scarce a rag to shield him from the cold; The good-man helps; he pities; does not grieve; Is grateful he can give, need not receive. Statesmen will strive, he counts his orchard’s yield, And reaps his harvest from the willing field. A realm may fall, loud lawyers rule the Court, Heirships be changed by some forgot report, Adventurers new seas explore, or rush On foreign swords in thirst for gold, or push Into proud palace halls; while he instead Drives his curved plough, and mows the yellow mead. Hence herds deserving well their ample cheer, With all the genial labours of the year. Hence too the tribute that he gladly brings To his Penates, modest offerings— Kind “Little People,” blest where’er ye come Compacted of an atmosphere of Home! Hence, above all, what may his native land Of labour, store, nay, of his life demand! True Roman, few as he of Rome so proud; None readier to give her goods and blood! Meantime no season comes without its call; Not one would he away; he loves them all— Cries between laugh and wail from lambs new-born, Sheaves in the close-packed barn of golden corn, Groans of content from home-returning sows, The woodlands’ crackling thuds of severed boughs, Pyramids of red apples, row on row, And vineyards purpling in late Autumn’s glow, Till with the olives’ rendering of oil Winter winds up the victories of toil. Content the master, with glad welcoming eyes, As crop to crop succeeds, each a surprise, Yet taking each its place in order clear, The grand procession of the fruitful year!