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2-088 (Raw)

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addressee author,male,Woolls, William,19
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Kramer, 1985
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2-088-raw.txt — 3 KB

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Beatus ille qui procul negotiis
Happy the man from business free,
As ancient mortals used to be,
Who, far from Sydney's dusty ways,
In sweet retirement spends his days,
And cultivates the fertile soil
Which once confess'd his father's toil.
The drum and fife ne'er break his sleep,
Nor cannons roaring o'er the deep,
Nor does the Colonel's dreaded corps
With sticks and stones assail his door.
He cares not with the great to dine,
And taste Sir 's sparkling wine;
Or on the weary Jury sit
And shake his sides at 's wit;
But - happy man - he gently twines
Around the fence his tender vines,
And as the older boughs decay,
He lops the useless load away.
Now in the valley he surveys
His wandering herds of cattle graze,
And sheep unnumber'd pour along,
Urged by the dog's discordant tongue.
Train'd by his care, the opening flower
With fragrant perfumes fills the bower,
And luscious fruits of purple dye
At every step delight his eye.
Sometimes at ease supinely laid
Beneath acacias' pleasing shade,
Where gliding streamlets steal along
He listens to the warbler's song;
Or sleeps the sultry hour away
Till soothing zephyrs cool the day.
When on the distant mountains' height
The wonted blue is capt with white,
And wintery breezes blow again,
With chilling fierceness o'er the plain,
Then, at full speed, the sportive horse
Leads forth his master to the course. [18] 
Where the swift hounds with joy pursue,
The emu and the kangaroo - Then, sallying forth, with murderous aim,
He fills his spacious bag with game,
While far and near the woods resound,
As numerous victims strew the ground.
But if a chaste and virtuous wife,
Crown all the pleasures of his life,
And, ever smiling, ever gay,
Drive all the cares of time away,
Who - happy thus - would stoop to prove
The pains and aches of wanton love,
And view the fair ones o'er and o'er
When Marshall's vessels reach the shore?
Behold she brings the home-made wine,
Press'd from the clusters of his vine,
And cheese and butter, and a hoard
Of unbought dainties for her lord,
Anxious alone in all her toil,
To win from him a favouring smile.
And who amidst such joys as these,
Would long for foreign luxuries - The crusty port, the bright champaign,
Or cordials wafted o'er the main?
At silent eve he joys to view
The flocks their homeward course pursue,
And see the labouring oxen bow
Their languid necks beneath the plough,
While as the twilight fades away,
And night succeeds the passing day,
He views the stars and planets move,
In silent harmony above.
Rapt from the earth, he fain would fly,
Far from the glance of mortal eye,
And leave his prison-house of clay,
For the bright scenes of endless day.
The merchant said, and swiftly he
Resolved to sell his property,
And, far from Sydney's dusty ways,
In sweet retirement spend his days;
But whilst he counts his thousands o'er,
And calculates his goods in store,
His greedy feelings soon revive,
And still in town he vows to live.