Sinopsis

Give, if thou wilt, for gold a life of toil! Let endless acres claim thy care! While sounds of war thy fearful slumbers spoil, And far-off trumpets scare! To me my poverty brings tranquil hours; My lowly hearth-stone cheerly shines; My modest garden bears me fruit and flowers, And plenteous native wines. I set my tender vines with timely skill, Or pluck large apples from the bough; Or goad my lazy steers to work my will, Or guide my own rude plough. Full tenderly upon my breast I bear A lamb or small kid gone astray; And yearly worship with my swains prepare, The shepherd's ancient way. I love those rude shrines in a lonely field Where rustic faith the god reveres, Or flower-crowned cross-road mile-stones, half concealed By gifts of travellers. Whatever fruit the kindly seasons show, Due tribute to our gods I pour; O'er Ceres' brows the tasseled wheat I throw, Or wreathe her temple door. My