Metamorphoses: The Golden Age

by Ovid;

The golden age was first; when Man yet new,

No rule but uncorrupted reason knew:

And, with a native bent, did good pursue.

Unforc'd by punishment, un-aw'd by fear,

His words were simple, and his soul sincere;

Needless was written law, where none opprest:

The law of Man was written in his breast:

No suppliant crowds before the judge appear'd,

No court erected yet, nor cause was heard:

But all was safe, for conscience was their guard.

The mountain-trees in distant prospect please,

E're yet the pine descended to the seas:

E're sails were spread, new oceans to explore:

And happy mortals, unconcern'd for more,

Confin'd their wishes to their native shore.

No walls were yet; nor fence, nor mote, nor mound,

Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound:

Nor swords were forg'd; but void of care and crime,

The soft creation slept away their time.

The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the plough,

And unprovok'd, did fruitful stores allow:

Content with food, which Nature freely bred,

On wildings and on strawberries they fed;

Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest,

And falling acorns furnish'd out a feast.

The flow'rs unsown, in fields and meadows reign'd:

And Western winds immortal spring maintain'd.

In following years, the bearded corn ensu'd

From Earth unask'd, nor was that Earth renew'd.

From veins of vallies, milk and nectar broke;

And honey sweating through the pores of oak.