No longer venturing for exalted life,
(For storms and quicksands have no charms for me,)
I, in the listless labors of the swain,
Provoke no turmoil and awake no pain.
To drive the team afield and guide the plough,
Or lead the herds to graze the dewy mead,
Wakes not the glance of lynx-eyed rival now,
And makes no heart with disappointment bleed;
Once more I joy to see the rivers flow.
The lambkins sport, and brindled oxen feed,