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An Horatian Lyric

An Horatian Lyric image
Parent Issue
Public Domain
OCR Text

O biest is he, froni biiBJness free, Like tho merry men of old, Who tills bis ïand with bis own stout hand, And knows not tbe lust of gold. No sailor he on stormy sea, No eoldier, trumpct stirred; And ho shuns the town and the haughty frown Of the courtiere' fawning herd. But he bids the vino with her tendrils twine Around íhe poplar tall ; And he adds a graft, uith a gardener'a craft, To the tree that climbs bis wall. Or a grazier keen, on the pastures green He seos his oxen feed ; Or hc ahears bis flock, or he brews a stock Of his rustic nectar tnead. And when autiunn at lengtb in his manly strength Has raised his fl-uit=-crowned head, He phicks the penr with its flavor rare, Aud tho grapo with its clusters red. With liis kuee on the sod he thanks bis God For His mcrcioB and Hia favors free ; And he lays him along, while he Hsts the song Of the thrush in the old oak tree ; While the waters glida with the rippling tide, And the zephyrs eoftly creexi O'er the qmvering leaves, 'rnidst the nrurtnurinrc trees, And lull the sensos lo sleep. IBiit when ttmnderiiig Jove from his stores above Sends wintry snows aud rain, And rock and wood, and field and flood, Lay bound in his icy chain, With many a Dound, in the woods aitmnd He hunta the grizzly bor ( And ero daylieht fade his gleaming blade Is red with the tnonster's gore. Wheh the snn has set he spreads his net, And the partridge, fluttoring, dies ; He takes the hare in his crafty snare, And the crane - a goodly pri'ze. 'Mid joys like these vhat ills can teasc- Who could remember pain ? He feels no wrong, and he laiighs at üie thronK Of the cajee that swell love's train. If a loving wife- best etaff of life- Be hls, and children doar, The flre burns bright with lts ruddy liRht, His homeward step to cheer. At the cottage door, wheii hls toil is o'er, Sho stands -with her Binile so sweet, , And holds up her face with a modest trar-ts His welcome kiss to meet, And children glad BWarm round their dad, Bnt the hungry man must dine ; So ehe spreads the cloth, and he sups his brotb flTillo she pourn out her home-made wine.


Old News
Michigan Argus