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:

[6]

"Good, Sarah, that's right! If we can find one that
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:

[7]

Authoress of "Praises of Rural Life."

JERE.