Odes 2.16 (Gladstone): Otium Divos

When clouds the moon with blackness shade,
When stars refuse the sailors aid,
Caught on the broad Aegean's breast
The shipman prays the gods for rest.

Rest, asks the Thracian, wild in fight;
Rest, asks the Mede, with quiver bright;
But rest, my Grosphus, is not sold
For purple robe, or gems, or gold.

Nor lictor in the consul's train
Can stay the spirit's piteous pain,
Nor wealth; nor drive the cares aloof
That flit beneath the pannelled roof.

A man, where shines on humble board
The salt-box that his father stored,
Lives well, though poor: no fears molest,
Nor greed of gain, his nightly rest.

Why strenuous, for our little time,
To compass much? some other clime
Than ours, why covet? Wander why
From home? Ourselves we cannot fly.

Grim Care the knightly train attends,
Grim Care the beaked ships ascends,
Outstrips the stag, and the east wind,
That chases clouds, leaves far behind.

Eschew, with present joys content,
The mind on forecast idly bent:
Calm smiles the sourest chance can cheat;
The sweetest is not wholly sweet.

Achilles falls before his day;
With years, Tithonus wastes away:
The coming Hour to me may grant
The very boon it bids thee want.

Those hundred flocks, those Sikel kine
Around thee lowing, all are thine:
The neighing mare, in races tried,
Robes twice in Afric's purple dyed,

Thine too. A little farm to use,
A faint breath of the Grecian muse,
Me loyal Fate hath so endowed,
And taught to spurn the carping crowd.