THE COUNTRY LIFE. SWEET country life, to such unknown, Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam, To bring from thence the scorched clove; 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, 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, And smell'st the breath of great eyed kine, Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool; 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 Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast, Thy may-poles, too, with garlands graced; Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings And trace the hare in the treacherous snow: Who all the day themselves do please, Robert Herrick. THE WAYSIDE SPRING. FAIR dweller by the dusty way, Bright saint within a mossy shrine, The tribute of a heart to-day, The earliest blossoms of the year, 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, 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. |