Brokenvagabond’s Weblog

A Poem January 18, 2009

A poem by Boethius as translated by Rev. Philip Ridpath in 1785

Thrice happy they in days of old
Who liv’d-it was an age of gold;
Content, with what the bounteous soil
Bestow’d abundant, without toil.
Ere baneful luxury began
To mix the poison’d cup of man,
Ripe fruits and herbs his wholesome food
Supplied,-nor thirsted he for blood;-
On hills securely fed the flocks,
Safe in the pastures graz’d the ox.-
The painful bee’s ambrosial dew,
That healthful precious balm he knew:
But knew not, from the juicy vine,
To draw the dangerous charms of wine.
To shine in splendid dress admir’d,
He, unambitious, ne’er aspir’d;
The Tyrian dyes were unreveal’d,
The diamond’s lustre lay conceal’d.
Serenely pleasant pass’d his days,
His wants were few,-and serv’d with ease:
The flow’ry lawn-his fragrant bed,
The zeyhyrs bland-his slumbers fed,
The purling stream’s translucent wave
Delightful beverage to him gave;
The shadowy pine a cool retreat
Afforded, from the noon-tide heat.
Fir’d with insatiate thirst of gain,
No bold advent’rers plow’d the main,
And madly tempted untried shores,
By commerce to encrease their stores.
The martial trumpet’s loud alarms
Rous’d not these sons of peace to arms;
Unskilled in war’s detested trade,
In purple gore the shining blade
They dyed not, nor thirsty plain
Strow’d with the wounded and the slain.
For what could stimulate their rage
In impious battles to engage,
When death, or many a gaping wound,
Was all the meed that valour crown’d?
O could we see those golden times,
So guiltless so averse from crimes,
Return, and bless the earth again!-
But that fond wish, alas, how vain!
Man’s thirst of wealth what can assuage?
Not Etna’s fires more fiercely rage.-
Curs’d be the wretch who op’d the mine,
And gave the flaming gold to shine;
Th’ unnumber’d ills that vex the earth,
To that dire mischief owe their birth.