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As with quick foot he climbs some ruined wall,
And crops the ivy which prevents its fall;
With rural charms the tranquil mind delight,
And form a picture to th' admiring sight.

ERASMUS DARWIN, 1721-1802.

AN ENGLISH PEASANT'S COTTAGE.

The prettiest cottage on our village green is the little dwelling of Dame Wilson. It stands in a corner of the common, where the hedgerows go curving off into a sort of bay round a clear bright pond, the earliest haunt of the swallow. A deep, woody green lane, such as Hobbima or Ruysdael might have painted-a lane that hints of nightingales, forms one boundary of the garden, and a sloping meadow the other; while the cottage itself, a low, thatched, irregular building, backed by a blooming orchard, and covered with honeysuckle and jessamine, looks like the chosen abode of snugness and comfort. And so it is.

MARY R. MITFORD.

RUTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened: such a blush,
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,

Which were blackest none could tell;

But long lashes vail'd a light

That had else been all too bright.

And her hat with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim:
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure I said, Heav'n did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come-
Share my harvest and my home.

THOMAS HOOD.

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

Say, why does man, while to his opening sight
Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight,
And Nature bids for him her pleasures flow,
And gives to him alone his bliss to know,
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms?
Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms?
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath,
Though fraught with ruin. infamy, and death!
Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings,
Know what calm joy from purer sources springs;
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife
The harmless pleasures of a harmless life,
No more his soul would pant for joys impure;
The deadly chalice would no more allure;
But the sweet potion he was wont to sip
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip.

H. K. WHITE, 1785-1806.

FROM "THE COMPLETE ANGLER."

Ven. On my word, master, this is a gallant trout; what shall we do with him?

Pisc. Marry, e'en eat him to supper: we'll go to my hostess, from whence we came; she told me, as I was going out of door, that my brother Peter, a good angler, and a cheerful companion, had sent word he would lodge there to-night, and bring a friend with him. My hostess has two beds, and I know you and I may have the best. We'll rejoice with my brother Peter and his friend, tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, or find some harmless sport to content us, and pass away a little time without offense to God or man.

Ven. A match, good master: let's go to that house, for the linen looks white, and smells of lavender, and I long to lie in a pair of sheets that smell so. Let's be going, good master, for I am hungry again with fishing.

Pisc. Nay, stay a little, good scholar; I caught my last trout with a worm. Now I will put on a minnow, and try a quarter of an hour about yonder trees for another, and so walk toward our lodging. Look you, scholar, thereabout we shall have a bite presently, or not at all. Have with you, sir, o' my word I have hold of him. Oh, it is a great logger

headed chub; come, hang him upon that willow twig, and let's be going. But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, toward yonder high honeysuckle hedge; there we'll sit and sing while this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows.

Look! under that broad beach-tree I sat down when I was last this way a fishing, and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that primrose hill; there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently toward their center, the tempestuous sea, yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble-stones, which broke their waves and turned them into foam; and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the harmless lambs-some leaping securely in the cool shade, while others sported themselves in the cheerful sun; and saw others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams. As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with content, that I thought, as the poet has happily expressed it,

"I was for that time lifted above earth,

And possess'd joys not promis'd in my birth."

As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me; it was a handsome milk-maid, that had not yet attained so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too often do; but she cast away all care, and sung like a nightingale: her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; it was that smooth song which was made by Kit Marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days.

They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good-I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age. Look yonder! on my word, yonder they both be, a milking again. I will give her the chub, and persuade them to sing those two songs

to us.

God speed you, good woman! I have been a fishing, and am going to Bleak-Hall to my bed, and having caught more fish than will sup myself and my friend, I will bestow this upon you and your daughter, for I use to sell none.

Milk-W. Marry, God requite you, sir, and we'll eat it cheerfully; and if you come this way a fishing two months hence, o' grace of God, I'll give you a syllabub of new verjuice, in a new-made hay-cock for it, and my Maudlin shall sing you one of her best ballads; for she and I both love all anglers, they be such honest, civil, quiet men. In the mean time, will you drink a draught of red cow's milk? you shall have it freely.

Pisc. No, I thank you; but I pray do us a courtesy that shall stand you and your daughter in nothing, and yet we will think ourselves still something in your debt: it is but to sing us a song that was sung by your daughter when I last passed over this meadow about eight or nine days since.

Milk-M. What song was it, I pray y? Was it, 66 Come, Shepherds, Deck your Heads?" or "As at Noon Dulcina Rested?" or "Phillida, Flout me?" or "Chevy Chase?" or " Johnny Armstrong?" or "Troy Town?"

Pisc. It is none of those; it is a song that your daughter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it.

Milk-W. O, I know it now; I learned the first part in my golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter; and the latter part-which indeed fits me best now-but two or three years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me; but you shall, God willing, hear them both, and sung as well as we can, for we both love anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentlemen with a merry heart, and I'll sing the second when you have done :

THE MILK-MAID'S SONG.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the fairest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lined choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs ;

And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May morning:

If these delights thy mind may move.
Then live with me, and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW, 1593.

Ven. Trust me, master, it is a choice song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause that our good Queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a milk-maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night; and without doubt honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's mild-maid's wish upon her, "That she may die in the spring, and, being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck round about her winding-sheet."

THE MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields

To wayward winter reckoning yield;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten-
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

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