Of God's redeeming love.
APPENDIX.
The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.
PRAISES OF RURAL LIFE.
Though city ladies treat with scorn
The humble farmer's wife,
And call his daughters rude and coarse,
I'll live a country life.
I'd rather spin, and weave, and knit,
And wholesome meals prepare,
Than, dressed in silk, with servants throng'd,
Lounge in my cushioned chair.
I love to see my chickens grow,
My turkies, ducks, and geese;
I love to tend my flowering plants,
And make the new milk cheese.
I love to wash, I love to sew,
All needful work I like to do;
I like to keep my kitchen neat,
And humble parlor, too.
And when the grateful task is done,
And pleasure claims a share,
With some dear friend I'll walk abroad
And take the balmy air.
Not through the dusty, crowded streets,
Amid the bustling throng,
But in some pleasant cool retreat,
We'll hear the woodland song.
Or trace the winding silver stream,
And linger on its banks,
While all the birds in concert sweet,
Present their evening thanks.
We'll seek the ancient forest shade,
And see its branches wave,
Which have, perchance, a requiem sang
Above the red man's grave.
We'll breathe the pure untainted air,
Fresh from the verdant hills;
And pluck wild blossoms from their beds
Beside the laughing rills.
I love the country in the spring,
With all its waving trees;
When songs of joy from every grove
Are wafted on the breeze.
The smiling pastures robed in green,
How beautiful, and gay;
With bleating flocks, and lowing herds,
And little lambs at play.
I love midst rural scenes to dwell,
In summer's pleasant hours;
And pluck her sweet delicious fruits,
And smell her fragrant flowers.
I love to see the growing corn,
And fields of waving grain;
I love the sunshine, and the shade.
And gentle showers of rain.
I love to see the glitt'ring dew,
Like pendant diamonds, hung
On ev'ry plant, and flower, and tree,
Their glossy leaves among.
I love the joyful harvest months;
When smiling on the plain,
We see rich golden ears of corn,
And bending sheaves of grain.
I love to see the cellar filled
With sauce of various kinds,
Potatoes, beets and onions too,
And squashes from the vines.
I love to see the well filled barn,
And smell the fragrant hay;
I'll milk while brother feeds the lambs,
And see them skip and play.
I love to rise before the sun,
And see his rosy beams
Shine glim'ring through the waving trees,
In quiv'ring fitful gleams.
I love, when nothing intervenes.
The setting sun to spy,
Tinging the clouds with every hue,
Which charms the gazing eye.
I love the country every where,
Here let me spend my life;
No higher shall my thoughts aspire—
I'd be a farmer's wife.[6]
FOOTNOTES:
"Good, Sarah, that's right! If we can find one that
worthy of you, we will send him along."—Editor.
worthy of you, we will send him along."—Editor.
ODE TO SARAH.[7]
Rural maid, who, o'er glade,
Forest, plain, and mountain, roam
In joy and peace, and made
Happy by the brook's gay foam;
Who art content to live
In the farmer's domicil;
A listening ear give
To a stranger, who, with quill
In hand, sits down to write
An epistle, or letter,
To one, of whom it might
Be said, she's far his better.
Fair maiden, thou hast said,
And I doubt not truly too,
A farmer thou would wed,
If he would sincerely woo
Thy heart's best affection,
And at the holy altar
Vow, that kind protection
He'd give thee, and never falter,
But sacred keep the vow
Thus solemn made, and never,
So long as life lasts, bow
Down, and let this bond sever.
Lady fair, wouldst thou dare
A mechanic's wife to be,
And with him toil, and share
All the ills of life's rough sea?
Wouldst thou trust thy frail bark
In his hands, and if perchance
Ills should come, thick and dark,
Stand firmly, and thus enhance
His happiness, and not,
At disappointment's first dart,
Complain of thy sad lot,
And sink under a faint heart?
What sayest thou, fair one?
Dost thou view the mechanic,
As some fair ones have done,
With disgust, who grow frantic
At the sight of his dress,
Just because it does not fit
So smooth as they confess
That they should like to see it?
Dost thou, in honesty
Of heart, think him good and wise.
And in sincerity
Believe him not otherwise?
Dear lady, wouldst not thou,
To flee "single blessedness,"
Accept an offer now
From a mechanic, and bless
Him, throughout a long life,
With thy good fairy presence,
And ne'er the cry of strife
Raise, but yield obedience?
If him thou wilt many,
Give him soon thy residence,
That he may not tarry,
But, with lightning speed, fly hence.
FOOTNOTES:
Authoress of "Praises of Rural Life."
JERE.
AN EPISTLE TO JERE, IN ANSWER TO HIS ODE.
Worthy and much respected friend,
Accept the thanks I freely send;
Your generous offer, all will say,
Mere grateful thanks but ill repay.
An answer you request of me,
But prudence calls for some delay;
This weighty subject claims my care,
To answer now I must forbear.
Could you admire a homely face,
Devoid of beauty, charms, or grace?
Would you not blush, should friends deride
The rustic manners of your bride?
Say, would you build a cottage near
Some pleasant grove, where we might hear
The blithesome wild birds' pleasing song,
From morn till eve, all summer long?
And would you plant some tall elm trees,
Around your house, your bride to please;
And have a little garden, too,
Where fruit, and herbs, and flowers might grow?
And would you rear a mulberry grove,
That I might thus a helpmeet prove?
Although I suffer no distress
From fears of "single blessedness,"
I'd not disdain your rustic dress,
If generous feelings fill your breast;
That would not bar you from my door,
For costly clothing makes us poor.
Although you do not till the soil,
You say you're not afraid to toil:
By prudence, industry, and care,
A man may prosper any where.
You ask, if I would you obey,
Nor have contentious words to say?
I should not scold without a cause,
Nor would I reverence rigorous laws.
But let our correspondence end,
'Twill much oblige your humble friend;
As I've no gift for writing letters,
A friendly call would suit much better.
Appoint a day, and I'll prepare,
I'll sweep my hearth, and comb my hair;
I'll make the best of humble means,
Bake pies and puddings, pork and beans;
I'll dress in neat, but coarse attire,
And in my parlor build a fire.
Sir, I reside in Ruralville,
Southeast of Bluff, a craggy hill;
A broad majestic stream rolls by,
Whose crystal surface charms the eye.
If you still wish to win a bride,
Come where the farmers' girls reside;
Henceforth I write no more to you,
My much respected friend, adieu!
NOTE. If Jere isn't "done brown" now, we are no judge of human nater. Cheer up, Jere, "a faint heart never won a fair lady." "Pull up your dicky up," and try again; and if you get "sacked," remember and practice the advice of the old Poet:—
"Chase your shadow, it will fly you;
Fly yourself, it will pursue;
Court a girl, if she deny you,
Drop your suit, and she'll court you."—Editor.
NEIGHBORS' ADVICE TO INVALIDS.
Why sit you here, pining in languor and gloom?
Except you do something, you'll sink to the tomb;
Ah, where's the red roses that bloomed on your brow,
Where nothing but white ones are languishing now?