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.
Weston, April 6, 1852.
P.S. And now, my dear friend, it is certainly
Your city advantages you should compare
With ours in the country, let me know what they are.
WHICH I AM GRATEFUL FOR PERMISSION TO INSERT.
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,