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Two golden stars, like tokens from the blest,

Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun; His sinking hands seem pointing to the west; He smiles as though he said, "Thy will be done!"

His eyes they see not those illuminings;
His ears they hear not-what the Blackbird sings.

FREDERICK TENNYSON.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

SWEET Country life, to such unknown
Whose lives are others', not their own;
But, serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plow'st the ocean's foame
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove
To bring from thence the scorched clove;
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West:
No, thy ambitious masterpiece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or to pay thy hinds, and cleere

All scores,

and so to end the yeare:

But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds;
For well thou know'st, 't is not the extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock, the plowman's horne,
Calls forth the lily-wristed morne ;
Then to thy cornfields thou dost go,
Which, though well soyl'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet and hands:
There at the plow thou find'st thy teame,
With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up, by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plow;
This done, then to the enameled meads
Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present godlike power
Imprinted in each herbe and flower;
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine:
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat
Unto the dewlaps up in meat;

And as thou look'st, the wanton steere,
The heifer, cow, and oxe draw neare,
To make a pleasing pastime there:
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool;
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on a hill.
For sports, for pageantrie, and playes,
Thou hast thy eves and holydayes;

On which the young men and maids meet
To exercise their dancing feet,
Tripping the comely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crowned.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grae't,
Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale,
Thy shearing-feast, which never faile,
Thy harvest home, thy wassail bowle,
That 's tost up after fox i' th' hole,
Thy mummeries, thy twelf-tide kings
And queenes, thy Christmas revelings,
Thy nut-browne mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too deare for it:
To these thou hast thy times to goe,
And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow;
Thy witty wiles to draw and get
The larke into the trammel net;
Thou hast thy cockrood and thy glade
To take the precious pheasant made;
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
O happy life! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood;
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these;
And, lying down, have nought to affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

ROBERT HERRICK

CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME.

FROM "MARMION."

HEAP on more wood! - the wind is chill;
But, let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone,
Or listened all, in grim delight,
While scalds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth in frenzy would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly;
And, dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall.
And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled

And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night:

On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.

Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed her pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man ;
Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when, and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high-tide, her savory goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White skirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made:
But, O, what maskers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'T was Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
"T was Christmas told the merriest tale;

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS.
BEFELL that in that season on a day
In Southwark at the Tabard as I lay,
At night was come into that hostelrie
Well nine-and-twenty in a compagnie.

There also was a NUN, a Prioress,
That in her smiling was full simple and coy;
Her greatest oath was but by Saint Eloy;
And she was clepèd Madame Eglantine.
Full well she sange the service divine,
Entuned in her nose full swetely;

And French she spake full faire and fetisly,t
After the school of Stratford atte Bow,
For French of Paris was to her unknow.
At mete was she well ytaught withall; .
She let no morsel from her lippes fall,
Nor wet her fingers in her sauce deep;
Well could she carry a morsel, and well keep,
That no drop never fell upon her breast.
In courtesie was set full much her lest. ↑

And certainly she was of great disport,
And full pleasant, and amiable of port,
And took much pains to imitate the air
Of court, and hold a stately manner,
And to be thoughten worthy reverence.

But for to speaken of her conscience,
She was so charitable and so piteous,
She wolde weep if that she saw a mouse
Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled;
Some small hounds had she that she fed
With roasted flesh, and milk, and wasted bread,
But sore she wept if one of them were dead,
Or if men smote it with a yerde § smart:
She was all conscience and tender heart.

Full seemely her wimple pinched was; Her nose was straight; her eyes were grey as glass, Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red; But certainly she had a fair forehead. It was almost a spanne broad I trow, For certainly she was not undergrown.

Full handsome was her cloak, as I was 'ware Of small coral about her arm she bare A pair of bedes, gauded all with green ; And thereon hung a broach of gold full shene, On which was first ywritten a crowned A, And after, Amor vincit omnia.

Another NUN also with her had she, That was her chaplain, and of PRIESTES three.

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A good man there was of religion,
That was a poor PARSONE of a town;
But rich he was in holy thought and work,
He was also a learned man, a clerk,
That Christe's gospel truely would preach.
His parishens devoutly would he teach,
Benigne he was and wondrous diligent,
And in adversity full patient:

And such he was yproved often times;
Full loth were he to cursen for his tithes,
But rather would he given, out of doubt,
Unto his poor parishioners about,
Of his offering, and eke of his substance;
He could in little thing have suffisance.
Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder,
But he nor felt nor thought of rain or thunder,
In sickness and in mischief to visit
The farthest in his parish, much and oft,
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff.
This noble ensample to his sheep he gave,
That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.
Out of the gospel he the wordes caught,
And this figure he added yet thereto,
That if gold rust, what sholde iron do?
And if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,
No wonder if a common man do rust;
Well ought a priest ensample for to give,
By his cleannesse, how his sheep should live.
He sette not his benefice to hire,
Or left his sheep bewildered in the mire,
And ran unto London, unto Saint Paul's,
To seeken him a chanterie for souls,
Or with a brotherhood to be withold;
But dwelt at home, and kept well his fold,
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry.
He was a shepherd and no mercenarie,
And though he holy were, and virtuous,
He was to sinful men not dispiteous,
Nor of his speech dangerous nor high,
But in his teaching discrete and benigne.
To draw his folk to heaven, with fairness,
By good ensample, was his business :
But if were any person obstinate,
Whether he were of high or low estate,
Him would he reprove sharply for the nones,
A better priest I trow that nowhere is.
He waited after neither pomp ne reverence,
Nor maked him no spiced conscience,
But Christe's lore and his Apostles twelve
He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

ON SOME SKULLS

IN BEAULEY ABBEY NEAR INVERNESS.

IN silent, barren synod met

Within these roofless walls, where yet

The severed arch and carved fret
Cling to the ruin,

The brethren's skulls mourn, dewy wet,
Their creed's undoing.

The mitered ones of Nice and Trent
Were not so tongue-tied; no, they went
Hot to their councils, scarce content
With orthodoxy;

But ye, poor tongueless things, were meant
To speak by proxy.

Your chronicles no more exist,
For Knox, the revolutionist,
Destroyed the work of every fist
That scrawled black-letter;
Well! I'm a craniologist,

And may do better.

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Poor skull, thy fingers set ablaze,
With silver saint in golden rays,
The holy missal; thou didst craze
Mid beard and spangle,
While others passed their idler days
In coil and wrangle.

Long time this sconce a helmet wore,
But sickness smites the conscience sore;
He broke his sword and hither bore
His gear and plunder,
Took to the cowl, then raved and swore
At his great blunder !

This lily-colored skull, with all
The teeth complete, so white and small,
Belonged to one whose early pall
A lover shaded :

He died ere superstitious gall

His breast invaded.

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