Happy the man who his whole time doth bound Within the enclosure of his little ground.
Happy the man whom the same humble place (The hereditary cottage of his race)
From his first rising infancy has known, And by degrees sees gently bending down, With natural propension to that earth Which both preserved his life, and gave him birth.
Him no false distant lights by fortune set, Could ever into foolish wanderings get.
He never dangers either saw, or feared, The dreadful storms at sea he never heard.
He never heard the shrill alarms of war, Or the worse noises of the lawyers' bar.
No change of consuls marks to him the year, The change of seasons is his calendar.
The cold and heat winter and summer shows, Autumn by fruits, and spring by flowers he knows.
He measures time by landmarks, and has found For the whole day the dial of his ground.
A neighbouring wood born with himself he sees, And loves his old contemporary trees.
Has only heard of near Verona's name, And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame.
Does with a like concernment notice take Of the Red Sea, and of Benacus lake.
Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys, And sees a long posterity of boys.
About the spacious world let other roam, The voyage Life is longest made at home.
