The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 70

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

"THRICE HAPPY HE"

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the soft sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

Or how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs perfumed which do the flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold!

The world is full of horrors, falsehoods, slights; Woods' silent shades have only true delights.

William Drummond [1585-1649]

"UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE"

From "As You Like It"

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

CORIDON'S SONG In "The Complete Angler"

Oh, the sweet contentment The countryman doth find.

High trolollie lollie loe, High 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; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, The city full of wantonness, And both are full of pride:

But oh, the honest countryman Speaks truly from his heart, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, His pride is in his tillage, His horses and his cart:

Our clothing is good sheepskins, Gray russet for our wives, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Tis warmth and not gay clothing That doth prolong our lives:

The plowman, though he labor hard, Yet on the holiday, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, No emperor so merrily Does pa.s.s his time away:

To recompense our tillage The heavens afford us showers; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And for our sweet refreshments The earth affords us bowers:

The cuckoo and the nightingale Full merrily do sing, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And with their pleasant roundelays Bid welcome to the spring:

This is not half the happiness The countryman enjoys; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Though others think they have as much Yet he that says so lies: Then come away, turn Countryman with me.

John Chalkhill [fl. 1648]

THE OLD SQUIRE

I like the hunting of the hare Better than that of the fox; I like the joyous morning air, And the crowing of the c.o.c.ks.

I like the calm of the early fields, The ducks asleep by the lake, The quiet hour which nature yields Before mankind is awake.

I like the pheasants and feeding things Of the unsuspicious morn; I like the flap of the wood-pigeon's wings As she rises from the corn.

I like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush From the turnips as I pa.s.s by, And the partridge hiding her head in a bush, For her young ones cannot fly.

I like these things, and I like to ride, When all the world is in bed, To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide, And where the sun grows red.

The beagles at my horse-heels trot In silence after me; There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot, Old s.l.u.t and Margery,--

A score of names well used, and dear, The names my childhood knew; The horn with which I rouse their cheer, Is the horn my father blew.

I like the hunting of the hare Better than that of the fox; The new world still is all less fair Than the old world it mocks.

I covet not a wider range Than these dear manors give; I take my pleasures without change, And as I lived I live.

I leave my neighbors to their thought; My choice it is, and pride, On my own lands to find my sport, In my own fields to ride.

The hare herself no better loves The field where she was bred, Than I the habit of these groves, My own inherited.

I know my quarries every one, The meuse where she sits low; The road she chose to-day was run A hundred years ago.

The lags, the gills, the forest ways, The hedgerows one and all, These are the kingdoms of my chase, And bounded by my wall;

Nor has the world a better thing, Though one should search it round, Than thus to live one's own sole king, Upon one's own sole ground.

I like the hunting of the hare; It brings me, day by day, The memory of old days as fair, With dead men pa.s.sed away.

To these, as homeward still I ply And pa.s.s the churchyard gate, Where all are laid as I must lie I stop and raise my hat.

I like the hunting of the hare; New sports I hold in scorn.

I like to be as my fathers were, In the days ere I was born.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE

Beneath this stony roof reclined, I soothe to peace my pensive mind; And while, to shade my lowly cave, Embowering elms their umbrage wave; And while the maple dish is mine-- The beechen cup, unstained with wine-- I scorn the gay licentious crowd, Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.