THE ROYAL GALLERY. For well thou know'st 'tis not th' 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 corn-fields thou dost go, Which, though well soil'd, 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' enamell'd meads Thou go'st; and, as thy foot there treads, Thou seest a present god-like power Imprinted in each herb and flower; 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 crown'd. Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast, Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced; Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun alc, 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, and Christmas revellings; Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it. And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine, These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks 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! O happy life, if that their good ROBERT HERRICK. AN anything be so elegant as to have few wants and serve them one's self? Parched corn, and a house with one apartment, that I may be free of all perturbations, that I may be serene and docile to what the mind shall speak, and girt and road-ready for the lowest mission of knowledge or goodness, is frugality for gods and heroes. TOWN AND COUNTRY. OD made the country and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threatened in the fields and groves? Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moonbeam, sliding softly in between Here blossoms the clover, white and red, Straying over the side of the hill, How, just beyond, if it will not tire Near it a city hides unseen, |