Chapter III: Part 3

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!

* * * * *

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