SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care.
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE.

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.
Thou solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horror, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

THRICE, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state! When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns:

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep,

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are the innocent sheep.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride :
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite;
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music, and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise ;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:
In country plays is all the strife he uses;
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses;
And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content :
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage
is spent ;

His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas

Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease:

Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,

While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;

His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face:

Never his humble house nor state torment him:

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;

And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon :

Stay, stay,

Until the hast'ning day

Has run

But to the even-song ;

And having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along!

We have short time to stay as you,

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,