FRUIT OF OLD.
55
And hide me with a canopy of boughs! 586
Thrice blest the man whom mighty genius brings
To know the cause and origin of things:
Beneath his feet lie destiny and dread;
He walks the roaring waters of the dead. 590
And blest is he who knows the farmer's God,
Where Pan, Sylvanus, and the Nymphs have trod.
No Consul's axe, no Emperor's purple state,
No broil that breeds fraternal lies and hate,
No Dacian horde from Ister's dark cabal, 595
Nor Roman pomp, nor kingdoms raised to fall—
Nought recks he these, nor frets away his health,
Through pain at want, or jealousy of wealth.
Whatever fruit the branches, and the mead,
Spontaneous bring, he gathers for his need; 600
Nor sees the forum in its frantic time,
The iron laws, the calendars of crime.
While others vex dark Hellespont with oars,
Leap on the sword, or dash through royal stores,
Storm towns and homesteads, for their vile desire
To quaff from pearl, and sleep on tints of Tyre;
While others hoard and brood on buried dross,
And some are moonstruck at the pleader's gloss;
Thrice blest the man whom mighty genius brings
To know the cause and origin of things:
Beneath his feet lie destiny and dread;
He walks the roaring waters of the dead. 590
And blest is he who knows the farmer's God,
Where Pan, Sylvanus, and the Nymphs have trod.
No Consul's axe, no Emperor's purple state,
No broil that breeds fraternal lies and hate,
No Dacian horde from Ister's dark cabal, 595
Nor Roman pomp, nor kingdoms raised to fall—
Nought recks he these, nor frets away his health,
Through pain at want, or jealousy of wealth.
Whatever fruit the branches, and the mead,
Spontaneous bring, he gathers for his need; 600
Nor sees the forum in its frantic time,
The iron laws, the calendars of crime.
While others vex dark Hellespont with oars,
Leap on the sword, or dash through royal stores,
Storm towns and homesteads, for their vile desire
To quaff from pearl, and sleep on tints of Tyre;
While others hoard and brood on buried dross,
And some are moonstruck at the pleader's gloss;
