The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.The winds that make Icarian billows darkThe merchant fears, and hugs the rural easeOf his own village home; but soon, ashamedOf penury, he refits his batter'd craft.There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreathIs very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludesFrom rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breathFail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly