Wild Flowers | Page 4

the hill,
The widow's house was full in sight,

He pull'd the bridle harder still,
"Come on, we shan't be there
to-night."
Victory!

She met them with a smile so sweet,
The stable-door was open
thrown;
The blind horse lifted high his feet,
And loudly snorting,
laid him down.
O Victory! from that stock of laurels
You keep so snug for camps and
thrones,
Spare us one twig from all their quarrels
For Abner and the
Widow Jones.
[Illustration: a table.]
TO MY OLD OAK TABLE.
Friend of my peaceful days! substantial friend,
Whom wealth can
never change, nor int'rest bend,
I love thee like a child. Thou wert to
me
The dumb companion of my misery,
And oftner of my
joys;--then as I spoke,
I shar'd thy sympathy, Old Heart of Oak!
For
surely when my labour ceas'd at night,
With trembling, feverish
hands, and aching sight,
The draught that cheer'd me and subdu'd my
care,
On thy broad shoulders thou wert proud to bear
O'er thee, with
expectation's fire elate,
I've sat and ponder'd on my future fate:
On
thee, with winter muffins for thy store,
I've lean'd, and quite forgot
that I was poor.
Where dropp'd the acorn that gave birth to thee?
Can'st thou trace
back thy line of ancestry?
We're match'd, old friend, and let us not
repine,
Darkness o'erhangs thy origin and mine;
Both may be truly
honourable: yet,
We'll date our honours from the day we met;
When,
of my worldly wealth the parent stock,
Right welcome up the Thames
from Woolwich Dock
Thou cam'st, when hopes ran high and love
was young;
But soon our olive-branches round thee sprung;
Soon
came the days that tried a faithful wife,
The noise of children, and the
cares of life.
Then, midst the threat'nings of a wintry sky,
That
cough which blights the bud of infancy,
The dread of parents, Rest's
inveterate foe,
Came like a plague, and turn'd my songs to woe.

Rest! without thee what strength can long survive,
What spirit keep
the flame of Hope alive?
The midnight murmur of the cradle gave

Sounds of despair; and chilly as the grave.
We felt its undulating blast
arise,
Midst whisper'd sorrows and ten thousand sighs.
Expiring
embers warn'd us each to sleep,
By turns to watch alone, by turns to
weep,
By turns to hear, and keep from starting wild,
The sad, faint
wailings of a dying child.
But Death, obedient to Heav'n's high
command,
Withdrew his jav'lin, and unclench'd his hand;
The little
sufferers triumph'd over pain,
Their mother smil'd, and bade me hope
again.
Yet Care gain'd ground, Exertion triumph'd less,
Thick fell
the gathering terrors of Distress;
Anxiety, and Griefs without a name,

Had made their dreadful inroads on my frame;
The creeping
Dropsy, cold as cold could be,
Unnerv'd my arm, and bow'd my head
to thee.
Thou to thy trust, old friend, hast not been true;
These eyes
the bitterest tears they ever knew
Let fall upon thee; now all wip'd
away;
But what from memory shall wipe out that day?
The great,
the wealthy of my native land,
To whom a guinea is a grain of sand,

I thought upon them, for my thoughts were free,
But all unknown
were then my woes and me.
Still, Resignation was my dearest friend,
And Reason pointed to a
glorious end;
With anxious sighs, a parent's hopes and pride,
I
wish'd to live--I trust I could have died!
But winter's clouds pursu'd
their stormy way,
And March brought sunshine with the length'ning
day,
And bade my heart arise, that morn and night
Now throbb'd
with irresistible delight.
Delightful 'twas to leave disease behind,

And feel the renovation of the mind!
To lead abroad upborne on
Pleasure's wing,
Our children, midst the glories of the spring;

Our
fellow sufferers, our only wealth,
To gather daisies in the breeze of
health!
'Twas then, too, when our prospects grew so fair,
And Sabbath bells
announc'd the morning pray'r;
Beneath that vast gigantic dome we

bow'd,
That lifts its flaming cross above the cloud;
Had gain'd the
centre of the checquer'd floor;--
That instant, with reverberating roar

Burst forth the pealing organ----mute we stood;--
The strong
sensation boiling through my blood,
Rose in a storm of joy, allied to
pain,
I wept, and worshipp'd GOD, and wept again;
And felt,
amidst the fervor of my praise,
The sweet assurances of better days.
In that gay season, honest friend of mine,
I mark'd the brilliant sun
upon thee shine;
Imagination took her flights so free,
Home was
delicious with my book and thee,
The purchas'd nosegay, or brown
ears of corn,
Were thy gay plumes upon a summer's morn,

Awakening memory, that disdains control,
They spoke the darling
language of my soul:
They whisper'd tales of joy, of peace, of truth,

And conjur'd back the sunshine of my youth:
Fancy presided at the
joyful birth,
I pour'd the torrent of my feelings forth;
Conscious of
truth in Nature's humble track,
And wrote "The Farmer's Boy" upon
thy back!
Enough, old friend:--thou'rt mine; and shalt partake,

While I have pen to write, or tongue to speak,
Whatever fortune deals
me.--Part with thee!
No, not till death shall set my spirit free;
For
know, should plenty crown my life's decline,
A most important duty
may be thine:
Then, guard me from Temptation's base control,

From apathy and littleness of soul
The sight of thy old frame, so
rough, so rode,
Shall