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The mind that nature touches finds a science
At every step to study and admire.
'Twas night-fall; I had lost my way, but knew
The town was yet far distant, when, behold,
My destiny led me to a cottage door;
Not one of those vile cabins of our country,
Which, whether built of log, or stone, or brick,
Frighten the trees away :-an actual cottage,
Embower'd within a grove of sycamores,
With honeysuckle hanging to its walls,
And woodbine climbing round the rustic porch;
A cottage ornée I might term it, but
'Tis but a frippery phrase, and unbeseeming
A good substantial farm house, such as this.
I've said, fate led me, but 'twas in the shape
Of a fine little rogue I met i’ the forest,
Toting a load of dogwood flowers and red bud.
I might have deemed him Cupid's little self,
Or, as he toddled homeward, broad as long,
Thought him, for poets all believe in Ovid,
Some daring lover of the goddess Flora,
Transform'd into a walking vase of flowers.
A female met us ere we left the wood,
Like Venus seeking for her truant boy,
Or something better-like a tender sister
Seeking her little brother. Shall I say
What were our greetings? They were prim enough,
For she was modest, and with modesty
I'm always modest.
When we reach'd the cottage, The evening meal was waiting, with a welcome That made me one o' the family, impromptu. The sire, the dame, the children, all, methought, I had dream’d of before—especially The little maid who met us in the wood, Of her I had had visions. Supper ended, I could not think of going then; the road, They said, was intricate, the night was dark, And gentle Mary, though they did not say it, I saw was charming—so I gratified them. The sire was one of those plain, solid men, Who sometimes startle the pert citizen, Or college coxcomb, into nothingness; The growth of our free soil, self educated, Yet ready, should their country call them forth, Fresh from the plough to guide the ship of state, Or lead our armies on to victory. The dame was worthy of her spouse, and worthy Of the dear daughter she had form’d, and taught All that, perhaps, a woman need to knowHow to be good, agreeable, and useful.
The loud wood robin, with his liquid note,
The sweetest in the forest, roused me up
To meet the brisk good morrow of the red breast,
Peering and nodding at my flowery casement;
'Twas dawn-adieu, my Mary-au revoir.
I saw her soon again, you may suppose,
And often too; and when the summer came,
And brought its hot vacation, and the city
Went out of town, to mountains, caves, and springs,
I got my furlough too, and went to Mary.
We walk’d and talk'd, rode, sat, and read together;
But 'twas some time ere her accomplishments
Peep'd, one by one, upon me from the veil
Her modesty hung o'er them. She had read
Her father's well fill'd library with profit,
And could talk charmingly. Then she could sing,
And play too, passably, and dance with spirit;
She sketch'd from nature well, and studied flowers,
Which was enough, alone, to love her for.
Yet was she knowing in all needle work,
And shone in dairy and in kitchen too,
As in the parlour :—To conclude, I loved her.
Reader, didst ever go a gipseying?
I do not mean pic-nic-ing, with a party
Foolish and formal—but with wife and children,
Or a few true dear friends; choosing a spot
Fit for your gipsey camp, with fountain near,
Flowers, birds and breezes, shade and solitude;
There, for a day to pass the happy hours,
Giving free scope to nature—it is worth
An age of city life. Go, prithee, try it,
And if you are unmarried, I'll engage,
Provided he or she be there you love, You'll not be single quite another year. 'Twas so with me - I might have hem'd and ha'd From year
year, breaking a poor girl's heart With ‘hope defer'd;' and wasting my fresh youth With fears of folding doors and marble mantels.
We went a gipseying, and—I am married.
Viendola los cazadores
Capirotes y pihuelas,
Y al ayre dos neblies lanzan.
RARELY indeed is it that a sovereign finds exercise for the social affections of his nature. The soil must be no poor one, in which these most beauteous productions of human frailty do not wither and perish for want of nourishment: and even if they do grow with the growth, and strengthen with the strength of him to whom the sceptre and the diadem are given, how seldom is it that they afterwards find any thing they can cling to, and whence they can draw that aliment upon which their existence depends. How often does it happen, that like the ivy, finding no support where they most look for it, they shrink back upon the bosom whence they sprang and are absorbed, so that no trace of them is left. Such is the nature of our best and warmest affections; to the most gene