THE COUNTRY LIFE.

SWEET country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But, serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.

Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam,
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove,

To bring from thence the scorched clove;
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No; thy ambition's master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;

Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear

All scores, and so to end the year;

But walk'st about thine own dear grounds,

Not envying others' larger bounds:

For well thou know'st 'tis not the extent

Of land makes life, but sweet content.

When now the cock, the ploughman's horn,
Calls for the lily-wristed morn,

Then to thy cornfields thou dost go,

Which, though well soiled, yet thou dost know

That the best compost for the lands

Is the wise master's feet and hands.

There, at the plough, thou find'st thy team,
With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamelled meads
Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present god-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower;

And smell'st the breath of great eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat
Unto the dew laps up in meat:
And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,
To make a pleasing pastime there.
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox;
And find'st their bellies there as full

Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool;
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,

A shepherd piping on the hill.

For sports, for pageantry, and plays,

Thou hast thy eves and holy-days,

On which the young men and maids meet
To exercise their dancing feet;
Tripping the comely country-round,
With daffodils and daisies crowned.

Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,

Thy may-poles, too, with garlands graced;

Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale,
Thy shearing-feast, which never fail;
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl,
That's tost up after fox i' th' hole;

Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings;
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it.
To these thou hast thy time to go,

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow:
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net;
Thou hast thy cock-rood, and thy glade,
To take the precious pheasant made!
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then,
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
O happy life, if that their good
The husbandmen but understood!

Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these;
And, lying down, have nought t'affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

Robert Herrick.

THE WAYSIDE SPRING.

FAIR dweller by the dusty way,

Bright saint within a mossy shrine,

The tribute of a heart to-day,
Weary and worn, is thine.

The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweetbrier and the violet,
The pious hand of spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given

The homage of the pilgrim's knee; But oft the sweetest birds of heaven Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell,
The hermit squirrel steals to drink;
And flocks which cluster to their bell,
Recline along thy brink.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels, To quaff the cool and generous boon; Here from the sultry harvest-fields

The reapers rest at noon.