Which I am grateful for Permission to insert.
Dear Madam,
Many thanks for your missive so charming in verse,
So kind and descriptive, so friendly and terse;
It came opportune on a cold stormy day,
And scattered ennui and “blue devils” away;
For though in the city, where “all’s on the go,”
We often aver we feel only “so so,”
And sigh for a change—then here comes a letter!
What could I desire more welcome and better?
But how to reply? I’m lost in dismay,
I cannot in rhyme my feelings portray.
The nine they discard me, I’m not of their train,
They entreatingly beg, “I’ll ne’er woo them again;”
But I’ll brave their displeasure, and e’en write to you
A few lines of doggrel, then rhyming adieu.
My errors do “wink at,” for hosts you’ll descry,
And spare all rebuff, and the keen critic’s eye.
I appreciate all of your calm country life,
And feel you are happy as mother and wife;
Surrounded by taste, and the friend so refined,
Who with sterling good sense, loves the delicate mind;
Who with you can admire the “bird on the wing,”
With you welcome back the return of the spring;
Enjoying the promise of fruits and sweet flowers,
With music to cheer and beguile evening hours;
Then long, very long, may such hours be given—
They whisper content, and the foretaste of heaven.
I was born in the city, the city’s my home,
Yet oft in the country with pleasure I roam;
For there, I confess, the heart finds repose
In its pleasures and sorrows, which here it ne’er knows.
There no fashion, no nonsense, intrude on your walk,
But rational moments of rational talk,
Asserting that soiries, with jewels and dress,
Make a very small part of life’s happiness.
Ah! this I believe, most sincerely I do,
And sympathize freely, most truly with you.
Now Kossuth is coming, pray what’s to be done?
No pageant to welcome, to children no fun?
Some “turn a cold shoulder,” and look with disdain,
Yet many there’ll be who will follow his train.
He’s “sure missed a figure,” and “bit his own nose,”
Ah, many the thorn he’ll find ‘mid life’s rose.
Then we’ve concerts, fine readings, museum and halls,
With disputes, and debates, in legislative halls,
Ethiopian Minstrels, Shakesperian plays;
And yet, my dear friend, I’m told in these days,
Religion’s blessed joys are most faithfully felt,
With devotion’s pure prayers the proud heart to melt;
That many have turned to the straight narrow road,
Which leadeth to peace and communion with God.
To you this assurance a welcome will find,
A subject of vital concern to the mind.
When hither you come, do enter our door,
I’ll give you my hand, perhaps something more.
Let me urge, if inclined, to this you’ll reply,
I’ll again do my best, yes, surely I’ll try;
The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire
Some poetical lay from Genius’ sweet lyre.
But Genius repels me, she “turns a deaf ear,”
And frowns on me scornful, the year after year;
Perhaps if I sue, in the “sere yellow leaf,”
She’ll open her heart, and yield me relief.
But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu,
My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you,
And beg with your friends, you’ll please place my name,
The privilege grant me of doing the same.
S. Nicholson.
Boston, April 16, 1862.
Rejoinder to the foregoing Reply.
Many, many thanks my friend,
For those sweet verses thou didst send,
So good they were and witty;
And now I will confess to thee,
Mixed up with bad, much good I see
Within the crowded city.
Boston, “with all thy faults I love
Thee still,” though much I disapprove—
See much in thee to blame;
Yet to be candid, I’ll allow
Thy equal no one can me show
From Mexico to Maine.
It is my boast, perhaps my pride,
To be to English blood allied,
Warm in my veins it’s flowing;
And when I see the homage given
To foreign men and foreign women,11.By this I do not mean to include all foreigners, for some of them I consider among the very best of our population, but dancers, &c., &c.
That blood with shame is glowing.
I hope when Kossuth fever’s cool
And we have put our wits to school,
And sober senses found;
When the Hungarian’s out of sight
And shattered brains collected quite,
We may be safe and sound.
But what simpletons, should we choose,
With nought to gain and much to loose,
’Gainst Austria to war;
What greater folly, when we know
By doing this, we’ll get a blow
From the ambitious Czar.
But you may not with me agree,
And I am getting warm I see,
So here I bid adieu
To Kossuth and to Hungary,
To Russia and to Germany,
And the great Emperor too.
And now my friend a word I’d say
Before I throw my pen away,
On subject most important;
In doing this I need not fear
I shall offend the nicest ear,
Or strike a note discordant.
Oh! had I true poetic fire,
With boldness would I strike the lyre
So loud that all might hear;
But ah! my harp is tuned so low,
Its feeble strains I full well know
Can reach no distant ear.
Yet I rejoice that harps on high,
And voices of sweet harmony,
Are raised to bless the name
Of Him who sits upon the throne,
Rejoicing over souls new born,
Who soon will join with them,
Eternally His name to adore
Who died, yet lives forevermore.
Weston, May 8, 1852.
To my Friend Mr. J. Ellis.
To thee, the guardian of my youthful days,
Fain would I pay some tribute of respect;
And though it falls far short of thy desert,
The will to do thee justice thou’lt accept.
As I recall the days of former years,
Thy many acts of kindness bring to mind,
Tears fill my eyes, in thee I’ve ever found
A friend most faithful, uniformly kind.
Thou art the earliest friend of mine that’s left—
The rest have long departed, every one;
They’ve long years since the debt of nature paid,
But thou remainest still, and thou alone.
The snow of four score winters thou has seen,
And life’s long pilgrimage may soon be o’er;
Respected, loved, and happy hast thou been,
With ample means to relieve the suffering poor,
Thou ever hadst the will, as well as power.
Temperate in habit, and of temper even,
Calm and unruffled as the peaceful lake,
To thee the satisfaction has been given
Much to enjoy, and others happy make.
And when thy days on earth shall all be past,
And thou before the Saviour’s bar appear,
Mayst thou be found clothed in his righteousness
And from his lips the joyful sentence hear—
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant; thou
Hast over few things faithful been, and now
I’ll make thee ruler over many things,
And place a crown of glory on thy brow.”
Such will be thy reward, my friend, and mine,
If trusting in Christ’s merits, not our own,
We at the last great day in him be found;
He is the ark of safety—He alone.
Weston, April 24, 1852.
A Pastoral.
Oh! tell me ye shepherds, tell me I pray,
Have you seen the fair Jessie pass by this way?
You ne’er could forget her, if once you had seen,
She’s fair as the morning, she moves like a Queen.
My sheep are neglected, my crook’s thrown aside,
In pursuit of dear Jessie, sweet Jessie, my bride;
I hear nothing of her, no tidings can glean,
To see is to know her, she moves like a Queen.
Say, have you seen her? oh, pity my grief!
Speak quick, and impart me the needful relief;
You cannot forget her, if once you have seen,
She’s lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.
Have you not seen her?—then listen I pray,
Oh! listen to what a poor shepherd can say
In the praise of one ne’er so lovely was seen;
She’s youthful as Hebe, she moves like a Queen.
She’s fair as the Spring in the mild month of May,
She’s brilliant as June decked in flowerets so gay;
You ne’er could forget her if once you had seen,
She’s charming as Flora, she moves like a Queen.
Oh! tell me not Damon, that yours can compare
To Jessie, sweet Jessie, with beauty so rare;
With a face of such sweetness, so modest a mien,
She’s like morn in its freshness, she moves like a Queen.
You tell me your Sylvia is beautiful quite;
She may be, when Jessie is kept out of sight;
She is not to be mentioned with Jessie, I ween,
Her voice is sweet music, she moves like a Queen.
Then name not your Sylvia with Jessie I pray,
’Tis comparing dark night with the fair light of day;
Sylvia’s movements are clumsy, and awkwardly seen,
But Jessie is graceful, she moves like a Queen.
Menalaus’ fair wife, for beauty far famed,
By the side of my Jessie is not to be named;
Paris ne’er had woo’d Helen, if Jessie he’d seen,
She’s chaste as Diana, she moves like a Queen.
Oh! aid me, do aid me, ye shepherds, I pray!
The time is fast flying, no longer I’ll stay;
You cannot mistake her, there’s none like her seen,
She’s lovely as Venus, she moves like a Queen.
Do help me to find her, I’m wild with affright,
The day passes swiftly, it soon will be night;
There’s none to compare with her, none like her seen,
More lovely than Venus, she moves like a Queen.