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;
Nor 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?

Ah! would our hearts might still return
    To following in those ancient ways.
Alas ! the greed of getting glows
    More fierce than Etna's fiery blaze.

Woe, woe for him, whoe'er it was,
    Who first gold's hidden store revealed,
And - perilous treasure-trove - dug out
    The gems that fain would be concealed!