No music, borne from Eden's bowers, On heaven's own balmy wings, No song, that angels ever sang. Could roach these lofty strings;

For Gabriel with his golden harp, Tuned by the heavenly dove, Could never touch the thrilling notes Of God's redeeming love.



APPENDIX.

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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.

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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:

[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: 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!

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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?

Go, learn of the red men, they certainly know, They find healing plants, and will tell where they grow; God 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 analyzed 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.

Emetics reduce you, and tonics distress, While morphine distracts you and seldom gives rest. Now leave him, Oh, leave him! your life he'll not save; Except you obey me, you'll sink to the grave.

Come, leave all the doctors; resort to the shops Which peddle pills, balsams, elixirs and drops; Each cures ev'ry malady whenever used, Altho' by base slander they're greatly abus'd.

I hate these vile patents; they often make worse; Hear my good advice, let your mother be nurse; Ten thousand rare medical plants grow around. Their ne'er failing virtues old women have found.

There's catfoot and mugwort, archangel and balm, Possessing great virtues, and never do harm; While spleenwort, and whiteweed, and hyssop, and sage, Have cured the consumption in every stage.

Take saffron and goldthread, white poplar and rue, They've cured the dyspepsia wherever they grew; Use clover and nightshade, and drink wintergreen, They'll cure the worst cancer that ever was seen.

But I have no faith in these simple herb teas They never can lessen or cure a disease; And do not take pills, nasty powders and drops, Till you are filled up like the medical shops.

Still, something is needful, of that I am sure, But I've the most faith in the cold water cure; 'Twill strengthen, invigorate, open the pores, 'Tis curing sick people by dozens and scores.

Don't wrap yourself up in that cold dripping sheet, I always take cold, only wetting my feet; Yet there is an agent which I would apply, The red forked lightning which darts through the sky.

Old Franklin has tamed it and brought it to earth, And men are now learning how much it is worth; 'Twill dart through the stomach, the heart, and the brain, Each pore it will open and drive out the pain.

Come, quit all this fussing, take rich hearty food, And soon, I assure you, your health will be good; Leave your warm stifling beds, your soft cushioned chair, Run ten miles a day in the cool healthful air.

If I went thus, moping and lounging about, 'Twould bring on dyspepsia, consumption, or gout; Now here is good counsel, why will you be shy, You'd much better take it than lie down and die.



CONTENTS.

The Snow-drop My Birth-place The Oak and the Rill Hymn for a Donation Gathering The Marriage Vows Lines on the death of Ellen N—— An Epitaph Lines on the death of R., P.B., C., S., and M.A. Wing The Rose and Lilac Tree Lines on the death of Mrs. West Thoughts on the sudden death of J.W.N. Reflections on the death of Mr. White The Sister's Lament Lines on a Lock of Hair Lines on the last hours of Mrs. Judson Judson's Grave Lines on a Baptismal Occasion The Inquiry There is joy in heaven, &c. Jephthah's Vow Like a lost sheep, &c. And the vail of the temple was rent in twain Lines to an absent relative Lines to the wife of the above Come home to New England A Sister's Departure A Sister's Counsel Lines to a Friend on parting Farewell to a Brother To W.H.D, an adopted Brother Lines to a Friend in affliction Lines to a Sister To my Brother My Brother in the Tempest Lines to an absent Sister A Scene on a Sister's Wedding day To the Whippowil My harp is on the willows hung, &c. To a Sister, while dangerously ill The Invalid's Dream To a Butterfly in my Chamber To the "Wild Flower" The Minister at the Family Altar An Appeal for Ireland The Little Cloud Lewiston, as it was, and as it is Twilight Musings. By Amelia To Amelia Moonlight Musings Thoughts on a Petunia To a White Hollyhock Lines on the Miniature of a pair of twin boys The Cultivation of Flowers Music of the Mind

APPENDIX.

Praises of Rural Life Ode to Sarah An Epistle to Jere Neighbors' Advice to Invalids