THE POETRY OF THE FIELDS.

MORNING IN THE COUNTRY.

WHEN from the opening chambers of the east
The morning springs, in thousand liveries drest,
The early larks their morning tribute pay,
And, in shrill notes, salute the blooming day.
Refreshed fields with pearly dew to shine,
And tender blades therewith their tops incline.
Their painted leaves the unblown flowers expand,
And with their odorous breath perfume the land.
The crowing cock and chattering hen awakes
Dull sleepy clowns, who know the morning breaks.
The herd his plaid around his shoulders throws,
Grasps his dear crook, calls on his dog, and goes
Around the fold: he walks with careful pace,
And fallen clods sets in their wonted place;

Then opes the door, unfolds his fleecy care,

And gladly sees them crop their morning fare!
Down upon easy moss he lays,

And sings some charming shepherdess's praise.

THOMSON.

THE LINNET.

WHEN whinny braes are garlanded with gold,
And, blithe, the lamb pursues, in merry chase,
His twin around the bush; the Linnet, then,
Within the prickly fortress builds her bower,
And warmly lines it round, with hair and wool
Inwove. Sweet minstrel, may'st thou long delight
The whinny knowe, and broomy brae, and bank
Of fragrant birch! May never fowler's snare
Tangle thy struggling foot! Or, if thou'rt doomed
Within the narrow cage thy dreary days

To pine, may ne'er the glowing wire (oh, crime accursed!)

Quench, with fell agony, the shrivelling eye!
Deprived of air and freedom, shall the light

Of day, thy only pleasure, be denied?

THE GRASSHOPPER.

But thy own song will still be left; with it, Darkling, thou❜lt soothe the lingering hours away; And thou wilt learn to find thy triple perch,

Thy seed-box, and thy beverage saffron-tinged.

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GRAHAME.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,

And thy verdant cup does fill;

'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,

Nature's self's thy Ganymede,

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:

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THE GRASSHOPPER.

Man for thee does sow and plough;

Farmer he, and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire:
Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know:

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.

COWLEY.