THE PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE.

Он, the sweet contentment
The countryman doth find!

Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee;
That quiet contemplation

Possesseth all my mind;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

For courts are full of flattery,

As hath too oft been tried;

Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee; The city full of wantonness,

And both are full of pride;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

But, oh! the honest countryman
Speaks truly from his heart;

Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee;
His pride is in his tillage,

His horses, and his cart;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

Our clothing is good sheepskins,
Gray russet for our wives;

Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee; 'Tis warmth, and not gay clothing,

That doth prolong our lives;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

PRAISE OF A COUNTRYMAN'S LIFE.

The ploughman, though he labor hard,
Yet on the holy day,

Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee;
No emperor so merrily

Does pass his time away;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

To recompense our tillage,

The heavens afford us showers,
Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee;
And for our sweet refreshments

The earth affords us bowers;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

The cuckoo and the nightingale

Full merrily do sing,

Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee;
And with their pleasant roundelays

Do welcome in the spring;

Then, care away, and wend along with me.

This is not half the happiness

The countryman enjoys;

Heigh trolollie, lollie, lol, heigh trolollie, lee;
Though others think they have as much,
Yet he that says so lies;

Then, care away, and come along with me.

57

John Chalkhill.

THE WILD CHERRY-TREE.

Он, there never was yet so fair a thing,
By racing river or bubbling spring,
Nothing that ever so gayly grew

Up from the ground when the skies were blue,
Nothing so brave, nothing so free,

As thou, my wild, wild Cherry-tree!

Jove! how it danced in the gusty breeze!
Jove! how it frolicked amongst the trees!
Dashing the pride of the poplar down,
Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown!
Oak or ash-what matter to thee?

'Twas the same to my wild, wild Cherry-tree.

Never at rest, like one that's young,

Abroad to the winds its arms it flung,

Shaking its bright and crownèd head,

Whilst I stole up for its berries red.
Beautiful berries! beautiful tree!
Hurrah! for the wild, wild Cherry-tree!

Back I fly to the days gone by,
And I see thy branches against the sky;
I see on the grass thy blossoms dead,

I see (nay, I taste) thy berries red,

And I shout like the tempest, loud and free,
Hurrah! for the wild, wild Cherry-tree!

Barry Cornwall.

THE GARDEN.

59

THE GARDEN.

How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid!
While all the flowers and trees do close,
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name;
Little, alas! they know or heed,
How far these beauties her exceed:
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat.
Love hither makes his best retreat.

The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,

Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach ;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness:

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.