POETRY. THE C 0 UN TRY LIFE. BY It. H. Not what we would but whet sot must, Slokes up
... I forget The least of thy sweet trifles 7 The -vines that clamber yet, Whose bloom the bee still. rides 7 The roadside blackberries. grow ins ripe, And in tire woods the India pipe P Happy the man who tills his field, Content with rustic labour; Earth ...