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:

[Footnote 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:

[Footnote 7: Auth.o.r.ess 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 coa.r.s.e 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 d.i.c.ky 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?

Go, learn of the red men, they certainly know, They find healing plants, and will tell where they grow; G.o.d gave them this knowledge; their skill is the best; Make use of such means, they will surely be blest.

No poisonous minerals fill up his chest, But herbs that will heal you when sick and distressed, Designed by our Maker all pain to subdue, Which tortures the frame where these antidotes grew.

O, shun the rude savage who roams through the wood, With knowledge too scanty to choose wholesome food; Thomsonians will help you, they'll heal your disease; Emetics and numbers will soon give you ease.

The brave number one all disease can expel, And make you exclaim, I am perfectly well; All poisonous drugs in your system will die, Each pain will take wings, and the calomel fly.

These hot-crops will kill you with pepper and steam, Pork, mince pies and pancakes, hot puddings and cream; They'll double your fever, dyspepsia and pain; I beg you take warning; by thousands they've slain.

On boasting pretenders I'd now turn my back, No longer I'd deal with that ignorant quack; He cannot distinguish the heart from the brain, King's evil or dropsy from pleurisy pain.

Apply to the man who is bred in our schools, His drugs are examined by chemical rules; Whatever he uses is put to the test; I like to take a.n.a.lyzed medicine best.

His science trained eye your whole system will scan, From him naught is hidden which preys upon man; He'll find ev'ry pain, with its cause and effect, Plain reason might teach you that he's most correct.

Oh, shun this deceiver, his motives are gain, He oftener augments, than alleviates, pain; His boasted attainments are nothing but show, Put him with the rest, they'll just make a row.

He'll steal the warm crimson, that flows through your heart, He'll haunt you with blisters and plasters that smart, Torment you with setons, with leaches and cups, His calomel poisons, the blood it corrupts.