Classic Poem

The house Faustinus owns near Baiae's coasts
No widowed elms, no close-clipped boxes boasts.
No myrtle groves extending far and wide;
His is the true, the artless countryside.
In every corner sacks of grain recline,
And many a jar smells sweet of ancient wine;
When autumn's gone and winter days begin
The rough-clad pruner brings the last grapes in;
Bulls fiercely roar, as in deep vales they stray,
And steers as yet unhorned pine for the fray;
About the farmyard poultry wander free;
Shrill geese and jewelled peacocks you may see;
There guinea-fowl and speckled partridge stand,
And pheasants from the impious Colchian's land,
And birds that from their redness get their name,
And haughty cocks, each with his Rhodian dame;
From the high cotes resounds a soft lament,
Turtles and ringdoves with the pigeons blent.
Fat piglets give the bailiff's wife no rest,
And tender lambs await their mother's breast;
Young home-born slaves flock round the hearth each night,
And by the household gods the logs burn bright.
No pale-faced servants here as vintners toil,
No wrestling-masters waste the precious oil;
For greedy thrush a crafty snare they set.
Or trap young roe-deer in a hunting-net,
Or catch the fish with line and quivering rod;
Nor do the town-slaves wait the tutor's nod
To get to work, but labouring with good-will
In merry mood the fruitful garden till,
While long-haired boys the bailiff swift obey;
And even eunuchs find that work is play.

His country guests come not with empty hands:
A round of cheese from Sassina's forest lands,
Or yellow honey in the comb safe hid,
Or drowsy dormice, or a bleating kid,
Or gelded capon; and each sturdy maid
In baskets brings the eggs her hens have laid;
When work is done his neighbours come to dine,
All share the meal nor do the slaves repine,
Or grudge the guests their fill: he does not borrow
From to-day's dish to serve a feast to-morrow.
But you, my friend, in your suburban seat
Win but starvation from your garden neat;
From your high towers you see but laurel leaves,
Nor need your garden god have fear of thieves;
Your labourers are fed on corn from Rome,
And you import to your gay country home
Greens, apples, poultry, eggs, and wine, and cheese.
Mansions in town, not farms, need things like these.