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 plenteous orchards fear no pelf or harm,
By red Priapus sentinelled;
By his huge sickle's formidable charm