The Former Age

Too blest the former age, their life Who in the fields contented led, And still, by luxury unspoiled, On frugal acorns sparely fed.

No skill was theirs the luscious grape With honey’s sweetness to confuse; Nor China’s soft and sheeny silks T’ empurple with brave Tyrian hues.

The grass their wholesome couch, their drink The stream, their roof the pine’s tall shade; Not theirs to cleave the deep, nor seek In strange far lands the spoils of trade.

The trump of war was heard not yet, Nor soiled the fields by bloodshed’s stain; For why should war’s fierce madness arm When strife brought wound, but brought not gain?