312 THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. 



Thrice happy he, who, by some shady grove, 



' Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own ; 



1 Though solitary, who is not alone, 



' Rut doth converse with that Eternal Love. 



1 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 zephyrs' wholesome breath, 

 ' And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs unfold, 

 ' Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! 

 ' How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! 

 ' The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights ; 

 ' Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.' 



DRUMMOND. 



THE London visitors had now been a week beneath 

 the hospitable roof of Dr. Hastings, and it had 

 been a pleasant week. The change to both had 

 been complete. Long indulged habits had been 

 broken in upon, and now that the charm was dis- 

 solved, they wondered at the drowzy manner in 

 which they had suffered long years of precious 

 existence to gather over their heads, without 

 shedding on them those fresh rays of knowledge 

 which will gild their setting hour. The early walk, 

 the pleasant breakfast, rendered so by cheerfulness 

 and the interesting conversation of Dr. Hastings, 

 and healthy exercise, all had novel charms for 



