SYLVA 287 



To go, and underneath some silent shade, 



Which neither cares nor anxious thoughts invade, 



Does, for a while, himself alone possess ; 



Changing the town for rural happiness. 



He, when the sun's hot steeds to th' ocean hast, 



E're sable night the world has over-cast, 



May from the hills the fields below descry, 



At once diverting both his mind and eye. 



Or if he please, into the woods may stray, 



Listen to th' birds, which sing at break of day ; 



Or, when the cattle come from pasture, hear 



The bellowing oxe the hollow valleys tear 



With his hoarse voice : Sometimes his flow'rs invite ; 



The fountains too are worthy of his sight. 



To ev'ry part he may his care extend, 



And these delights all others so transcend, 



That we the city now no more respect, 



Or the vain honours of the court affect : 



But to cool streams, to aged groves retire, 



And th' unmix'd pleasures of the fields desire ; 



Making our beds upon the grassie bank, 



For which no art, but nature we must thank. 



No marble pillars, no proud pavements there, 



No galleries, or fretted roofs appear, 



The modest rooms to India nothing owe ; 



Nor gold, nor ivory, nor arras know : 



Thus liv'd our ancestors when Saturn reign'd, 



While the first oracles in oaks remained : 



A harmless course of life they did pursue ; 



And nought beyond their hills, their rivers knew. 



Rome had not yet the universe ingross'd, 



Her Seven Hills few triumphs then could boast. 



Small herds then graz'd in the Laurentine mead ; 



Nor many more th'Arician valleys feed. 



Of rural ornaments, of woods much more 

 I could relate, than what I have before ; 

 But what's unfinish'd, my next care requires, 

 And my tir'd bark the neighb'ring port desires. 



Resonate Montes Laudationem, SILVA, 

 Et omne Lignum ejus. Isa. 44. 23. 



