How tranquil the life
of him who, shunning the vain world’s uproar,
May follow, free from strife,
The hidden path of yore
Chosen by the free who canned true wisdom lore;
For he with thoughts aloof
By proud men’s great estate is not oppressed
Nor marvels at the roof , of gold, built to attest
the moons skill and on jasper pillows rest.
He heeds not though fame raise
His name afar on wings of rumor flung.
He cares not for the praise
of cunning flatterer’s tongue.
Nor for what truth, sinore, would leave unsung.
What boots it my content
That the van voce of fame should favor me,
If in its service spent,I find myself to be
Vexed by dull care and gnawing misery.
O hill, O stream, O field,
O solitary refuge of delight,
Since my bark now must yield
To the storm, your solace bright
I seek to feel the sea’s tempestuous might.
Sleep by broken with no fear
Be mine, and a day clear, serene and free,
Shunning the look severe, Lofty exceedingly,
of him whom exalts or ancestry.
I to myself would live
To enjoy the blessings that to heaven and owe,
Alone, contemplative, and freely love forego,
Nor hope, fear, hatred, jealously e’er know.
Yea lying in the shade,
My brow with ivy and bay immortal crowned,
My ear attentive made
To the soft, tuneful sound
of zither touched by finger’s skill profound.
