"Thrice Happy He"

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze

And point with taper spire to Heaven.

1589

Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]

ODE ON SOLITUDE

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire;

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day;

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed, sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

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.

66

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 "

Он, the sweet contentment
The countryman doth find.
High trolollie lollie loe,
High trolollie lee,

Coridon's Song

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 trollolie lee,

No emperor so merrily
Does pass 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:

1591

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 [f. 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 cocks.

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 pass 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 Old Squire

The beagles at my horse-heels trot

In silence after me;

There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,
Old Slut 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;

1593