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Horace, Odes 3.29:
Happy he,
Self-centred, who each night can say,
“My life is lived: the morn may see
A clouded or a sunny day:
That rests with Jove: but what is gone,
He will not, cannot turn to nought;
Nor cancel, as a thing undone,
What once the flying hour has brought.”
John Dryden:
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine,
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
An ode by Horace has been versified by many, with Dryden’s version perhaps the most famous in the English language. Today we consider a rendition by Gardiner Spring Plumley.
Happy the man who, far from business, found
The sea girt shore of old Long Island Sound.
He leaves Wall street, with all its din and row
To taste the cream of his pet Jersey cow.
He grafts his trees and trains his Concord vine,
And treats himself and friend to currant wine.
He, from the shore the busy bee swarm makes,
Enjoys their honey on his buckwheat cakes.
Or, when red Autumn glowing verdure wears,
Feasts on the Seckle or Bartlett pears.
Oft, fled the town, beneath a leafy vine,
He stretches out at his full length supine,
Sends from his pipe blue clouds and rings afar,
Or, frugal puffs from a Key West cigar.
Meanwhile, bright waters glide with soothing sound,
And warbling birds re-echo music round.
Let others, ‘mid November’s wintry airs,
Scour through the woods for coots, and coons and bears,
He seeks at eve his home and social ties
To revel on his mince and pumpkin pies,
Amid these scenes are all his cares forgot,
While loving wife and children bless his lot.
His wife, as nearer speeds the homeward train,
Hastes forth to meet him down the shaded lane;
An open fireplace sheds its welcome flare,
The kettle sings its song, the toast is there.
This simple meal with her more praise will win
Than Blue Point oysters, game, or terrapin.
Not turbot which the foamy ocean’s toss,
Not fat roast turkey with cranberry sauce,
He says, not grouse or woodcock can combine
To make a banquet so complete as mine:
When wife and children round the frugal board
Brings smiles and love, I envy not the hoard
Of Vanderbilt or Gould, be theirs the wealth,
Mine are the joys of innocence of cent per cent.,
If on real, solid satisfaction bent,
Will to Stamford town from stern business roam,
And only there find bliss in such a home.
Far from electric cars and stuffy flat,
Rats, mice, and bugs, mosquitoes and all that.
Then, week by week, a trifle I’ll put by,
And from foul streets and fetid odors fly,
Own my own humble roof, with comfort blest,
Work in the town, but in the country rest.
Rejoice when moil and toil and labor end,
That the town’s suburbs relaxation lend,
Save me from the landlord’s thrall and rent’s annoy,
And give to every day sweet hours of joy.
