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TO A NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours

Of winters past, or coming, void of care.

Well pleased with delights which present are,

Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,

Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,

And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,

A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.

What soul can be so sick which by thy songs

(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven

Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,

And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven 1

Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise

To airs of spheres—yes, and to angels' lays.

William Drummond. THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE.

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.

Thou solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,

And sighs embalm'd which new-born flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!

The world is full of horror, troubles, slights:

Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

William Drummond.

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HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!

When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns

No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep,

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;

Himself as innocent as are the innocent sheep.

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