If rich, and sprung from lines of fame,
Or houseless, and without a name,
Indifferent is; at the fixed day,
Relentless hell demands its prey.

We are all onward urged,-the urn
Fraught with a death at every turn,
Must soon or late our lot discharge,
And we for endless exile mount the barge.

HORACE. EPODE 2.

PLEASURES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

HAPPY the man, remote from toil and care,
As in the golden age men were ;

Who ploughs his native field with his own team,
And hath no debts of which to dream!
Who starts not to the trump's shrill reveillée,
Nor views with fright the raging sea;
Shuns the hoarse forum and the haughty gate
Of wealth, and of the vulgar great;

Well pleased around his poplars tall to twine
The tendrils of the wedded vine;

To prune the useless shoots, and in their place
Engraft a more prolific race.

In the far deepening vale, wandering at ease,
Joyous his lowing herds he sees;

In shining jars the clear pressed honey pours,
Or gathers in his fleecy stores;

Or when dame Autumn rears her honoured head,
With her ripe fruitage garlanded,

Large drooping from the boughs, the yellow pear
And purple grape reward his care;

Thy votive gift, Priapus! Sylvan, thine,
Protector of the bounding line!

VOL. II.-BB B

How sweet to lie, 'neath some old oak reclining,

Or where the tall grass round is twining; Through its tall banks the still stream glides along, Birds wake their sadly pleasing song,

And fountains near their murmuring descant keep,
Inviting calm and holy sleep!

But winter comes, at thundering Jove's command,
With storms and snows in either hand;
Then on the savage boar the dogs are set,
And drive him to the entangling net;
Or for the glutton thrush he lays his snares,
And light extended gins prepares ;

Here caught, the trembling puss, the stranger crane
Give sport in hoary winter's reign.

Who thus employed, has time or wish to prove
The pangs and cares of cruel love?

But ah! should some chaste dame adorn his hall,
Whose home and children were her all

(Like fair Sabina, or the browner bride,
Gracing the swift Apulian's side),

Who bids the sacred hearth more brightly burn,
Against the weary man's return,—

Folds up the herd right glad her cares to meet,

And drains each well distended teat,

-

Then from the well loved cask the wine draws forth,

Cheering, though of little worth,—

And joyous, for her lord, with active zeal,

Prepares the frugal unbought meal

With such, nor Lucrine oysters more I'd prize,

Nor turbot of majestic size,

Nor scarcer fish, if any winter bore,

From eastern waters near our shore.

Not Afric's fowl could prove a daintier treat,
Nor Asia's partridge seem more sweet,
Than the ripe olives hanging thick and low,
Plucked from the most luxuriant bough:

Or wholesome mallows, or green sorrel, still

Wandering o'er the meads at will;

Or the kid rescued from the wolf's fell bite,
Or victim lamb at festal rite.

And at the feast how pleasant to behold

The flocks swift bounding to the fold; To mark the weary oxen dragging slow,

With drooping necks the inverted plough; And all the household slaves, a swarming band, Around the glittering lares stand.

Thus spoke the usurer Alphius, in his thought
His house and farm already bought,

He called in all his funds in the Ides; but when
The Calends came-he loaned them out again.

WEEHAWKEN.

EVE o'er our path is stealing fast;
Yon quivering splendours are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.

The mountain's mirror'd outline fades
Amid the fast extending shades;

Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,

Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide ; For the great stream a bulwark meet That leaves its rock-encumbered feet.

River and Mountain! though to song
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues,
Will ask not the recording Muse,
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate,

Yet should the stranger ask, what lore
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,—