The Kings and Queens of England with Other Poems | Page 8

IN THE COUNTRY.
By especial request I take up my pen,
To write a few lines to my dear
Mrs. N.;
And though nothing of depth she has right to expect;
Yet
the will_ for the _deed she will not reject
The task, on reflection, is a
heavy one quite,
As here in the country we've no news to write;
For
what is to us_ very _new, rich, and rare,
To you in the city is stale and
thread bare.
Should I write of Hungary, Kossuth, or the Swede,

They are all out of date, antiquated indeed.
I might ask you with me
the New Forest to roam,
But it's stript of its foliage, quite leafless
become;
N.P. Willis and rival have each had their day,
And of
rappings and knockings there's nought new to say.
Yet do not mistake
me, or think I would choose,
A home in the city, the country to lose;

The music of birds, with rich fruits and sweet flowers,
We all in
the country lay claim to as ours.
A bird that's imprisoned, I hate to
hear sing,
Let me catch its glad note as it soars on the wing;
Its

carol so sweet as it's floating along,
It seems the Creator to praise in
its song.
With the sweetest of poets I often exclaim,
"God made the
country,"--let the pride of man claim
The town with its buildings, its
spires, and its domes,
But leave us in the country our sweet quiet
homes.
The scenery around us is lovely to view,
It charmed when a
child, and at three-score charms too.
Then leave me the country with
its birds, fruits, and flowers, And the town, with its pleasures and
crowds, may be yours. E'en in winter the country has right to the claim

Of charms equal to summer; to be sure, not the same.
See winter,
stern monarch, as borne on the gale,
He comes armed cap-a-pie in his
white coat of mail;
Behold what a change he hath wrought in one
night,
He has robed the whole country in pure spotless white.
He
fails not to visit us once every year,
But finds us prepared for
him--meets with good cheer,
And a most cordial welcome from all of
us here.
When with us he's quite civil and very polite,
In manners
most courtly, and dignified quite;
But I'm told were he goes
unexpected he's rough,
Chills all by his presence, and savage enough.

Hark, hear how it storms! blowing high and yet higher;
But then
we've books, music, and a brilliant wood fire,
Where logs piled on
logs give one warmth e'en to see;
Oh! these evenings in winter are
charming to me.
In good keeping these logs are with wind and the
hail,
Everything in the country is on a grand scale.
You have
nought in the city I think can compare,
To the bright glowing hearth
from a good country fire.
To be sure, now and then, one is cheered by
the sight
Of wood fire in the city, but when at its height

Compared
to our fires, Lilliputianal quite.
But here I will stop, for I think it quite
time
To have done with my boasting, and finish my rhyme.
M.A.H.T. BIGELOW.
Weston, April 6, 1852.
P.S. And now, my dear friend, it is certainly fair,
Your city advantages you should compare
With ours in the country,
let me know what they are.

REPLY:
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,