The accompanying Photographs were taken by the late MR.

GRUNDY, of Sutton Coldfield, near Birmingham.

IS not that rural sports alone invite,

But all the grateful country breathes delight; Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign, And strings the sinews of the industrious swain. Soon as the morning lark salutes the day, Through dewy fields I take my frequent way, Where I behold the farmer's early care

In the revolving labours of the year.

When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd, And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground, The labourer with the bending scythe is seen, Shaving the surface of the waving green;

Of all her native pride disrobes the land,

And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand;

While with the mountain sun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws:
But, if some sign portend a lasting show'r,
The experienced swain foresees the coming hour,
His-sunburnt hands the scatt'ring fork forsake,

And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake;

In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows,

And spreads along the field in equal rows.

Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains, And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains; When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake, And in the middle pathway basks the snake; Oh, lead me, guard me from the sultry hours, Hide me, ye forests, in your closet bowers: Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwines, And with the beech a mutual shade combines ; Where flows the murm'ring brook inviting dreams, Where bordering hazel overhangs the streams, Whose rolling current winding round and round, With frequent falls makes all the wood resound; Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast, And e'en at noon the sweets of evening taste.

A COUNTRY LIFE.

APPY the man who has the town escaped!

To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,

The shining pebbles preach

Virtue's and wisdom's lore.

The whispering grove a holy temple is

To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;

Each verdant sod a shrine

Whereby he kneels to Heaven.

The nightingale on him sings slumber down-
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
When shines the lovely red

Of morning through the trees.

Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!
In the ascending pomp of dawning day-
Thee in the glorious sun-

The worm-the budding branch.

Where coolness gushes in the waving grass,
Or o'er the flowers, streams, and fountains rests;
Inhales the breath of prime,

The gentle airs of eve.

His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun
And play and hop, incites to sweeter rest

Than golden halls of state

Or beds of down afford.