It was such a scene, perhaps, as that, which Sir Philip Sidney had already defcribed in his "Arcadia : "—

"There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of filver rivers; meadows enamelled with all forts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witneffed fo, by the cheerful difpofition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep feeding with fober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a fhepherd's boy piping as though he should never be old, there a young fhepherdefs knitting, and withal finging, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-mufic."

Pope, too, has told of the happy fecurity of pastoral life, in the couplet,-

Piping on their reeds the shepherds go,

Nor fear an ambush, nor suspect a foe.

The elegant Wotton appreciated in his day these rural charms, and thus tuned his mufic to their praise :

Mistaken mortals! did you know

Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow,
You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers;

Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,

But blustering care could never tempest make,

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Save of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic masque or dance,
But of our kids that frisk and prance;

Nor wars are seen,

Unless upon the green

Two harmless lambs are butting one another

Which done, doth bleating run each to his mother;

And wounds are never found,

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

England's greatest dramatist makes the unfortunate Henry thus figh, on the hard-fought field of Towton, for the happiness of a fhepherd's life :

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:

So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,

Pass'd over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery?
Oh yes it doth; a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude,-the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched on a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Listen to Phineas Fletcher, another poet of the golden age; how fresh and invigorating is the scene which he presents to our view! and how fimple and healthy are the occupations of the folding and unfolding of the flock, which form the fole charge and only care of the gentle and happy fhepherds!

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 flock he learns to keep,
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

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;

Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

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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.

With the dawn of day the fhepherds awaken to the pleasant call of John Fletcher, the companion of Beaumont,

Shepherds, rise and shake off sleep-
See the blushing morn doth peep
Through your windows, while the sun
To the mountain-tops has run,

Gilding all the vales below

With his rising flames, which grow

Brighter with his climbing still

Up! ye lazy swains! and fill

Bag and bottle for the field!

Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield

To the bitter north-east wind;

Call the maidens up, and find
Who lies longest, that she may
Be chidden for untimed delay.
Feed your faithful dogs, and pray
Heaven to keep you from decay;
So unfold, and then-away.

At close of day, the flocks are to be folded, fo

Shepherds all, and maidens fair,

Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course has run.

See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Every little flower that is

Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads;
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of those pastures where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore, from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,

Lest the wolf come as a scout

From the mountain, and, ere day,

Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty thievish foe

Break upon your simple flocks.

To secure yourself from these

Be not too secure in ease;

So shall you good shepherds prove,

And deserve your master's love.

Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers

And soft silence fall in numbers

On your eyelids! so farewell!

Thus I end my evening knell !

There are few portraits drawn with greater care, or finish, than that one by the hands of Sir Thomas Overbury, of "A Fayre and happy milk-maid.”

"The golden eares of corne fall and kiffe her feet when she reapes them as if they wifht to be bound and led prisoners by the