Wild Flowers; or, Pastoral and Local Poetry
Public-domain ebook
Wild Flowers; or, Pastoral and Local Poetry
Language: en341 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #9094.
The opening · free to read
My Dear Boy,
In thus addressing myself to you, and in expressing my regard for your person, my anxiety for your health, and my devotion to your welfare, I enjoy an advantage over those dedicators who indulge in adulation;--I shall at least be believed.
Should you arrive at that period when reason shall be mature, and affection or curiosity induce you to look back on your father's poetical progress through life, you may conclude that he had many to boast as friends, whose names, in a dedication, would have honoured both him and his children; but you must also reflect, that to particularize such friends was a point of peculiar delicacy. The earliest patron of my unprotected strains has the warm thanks which are his due, for the introduction of blessings which have been diffused through our whole family, and nothing will ever change this sentiment. But amidst a general feeling of gratitude, which those who know me will never dispute, I feel for you, Charles, what none but parents can conceive; and on your account, my dear boy, there can be no harm in telling the world that I hope these "Wild Flowers" will be productive of sweets of the worldly kind; for your unfortunate lameness (should it never be removed) may preclude you from the means of procuring comforts and advantages which might otherwise have fallen to your share.
What a lasting, what an unspeakable satisfaction would it be to know that the Ballads, the Plowman Stories, and the "Broken Crutch" of your father would eventually contribute to lighten your steps to manhood, and make your own crutch, through life, rather a memorial of affection than an object of sorrow.
With a parent's feelings, and a parent's cares and hopes,
Well! I'm determin'd; that's enough:-- Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones, I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough, To go and court the Widow Jones.
Our master talks of stable-room, And younger horses on his grounds; 'Tis easy to foresee thy doom, Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.
The first Determination.
But could I win the widow's hand, I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee; For thou upon the best of land Should'st feed, and live, and die with me.
And must the pole-axe lay thee low? And will they pick thy poor old bones? No--hang me if it shall be so,-- If I can win the Widow Jones.
Twirl went his stick; his curly pate A bran-new hat uplifted bore; And Abner, as he leapt the gate, Had never look'd so gay before.
Old Love revived.
And every spark of love reviv'd That had perplex'd him long ago, When busy folks and fools contriv'd To make his Mary answer--_no_.
But whether, freed from recent vows, Her heart had back to Abner flown, And mark'd him for a second spouse, In truth is not exactly known.
Howbeit, as he came in sight, She turn'd her from the garden stile, And downward look'd with pure delight, With half a sigh and half a smile.
Rustic Salutation.
She heard his sounding step behind, The blush of joy crept up her cheek, As cheerly floated on the wind, "Hoi! Mary Jones--what wont you speak?"
Then, with a look that ne'er deceives, She turn'd, but found her courage fled; And scolding sparrows from the eaves Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head.
Down Abner sat, with glowing heart, Resolv'd, whatever might betide, To speak his mind, no other art He ever knew, or ever tried.
A clear Question.
And gently twitching Mary's hand, The bench had ample room for two, His first word made her understand The plowman's errand was to woo.
"My Mary--may I call thee so? For many a happy day we've seen, And if not mine, aye, years ago, Whose was the fault? you might have been!
"All that's gone by: but I've been musing, And vow'd, and hope to keep it true, That she shall be my own heart's choosing Whom I call wife.--Hey, what say you?
Past Thoughts stated.
"And as I drove my plough along, And felt the strength that's in my arm, Ten years, thought I, amidst my song, I've been head-man at Harewood farm.
"And now, my own dear Mary's free, Whom I have lov'd this many a day, Who knows but she may think on me? I'll go hear what she has to say.
"Perhaps that little stock of land She holds, but knows not how to till, Will suffer in the widow's hand, And make poor Mary poorer still
The Avowal.
"That scrap of land, with one like her, How we might live! and be so blest! And who should Mary Jones prefer? Why, surely, him who loves her best!
"Therefore I'm come to-night, sweet wench, I would not idly thus intrude,"-- Mary look'd downward on the bench, O'erpower'd by love and gratitude.
And lean'd her head against the vine, With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss, Till Abner cried, "You must be mine, You must,"--and seal'd it with a kiss.
The Interest of an old Horse asserted.
She talk'd of shame, and wip'd her check, But what had shame with them to do, Who nothing meant but truth to speak, And downright honour to pursue?
His eloquence improv'd apace, As manly pity fill'd his mind; "You know poor Bayard; here's the case,-- He's past his labour, old, and blind:
"If you and I should but agree To settle here for good and all, Could you give all your heart to me, And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?
His Character.
"I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never Set tooth upon a friend so true; He'll not live long, but I for ever Shall know I gave the beast his due.
"'Mongst all I've known of plows and carts, And ever since I learn'd to drive, He was not match'd in all these parts; There was not such a horse alive!
"Ready, as birds to meet the morn, Were all his efforts at the plough; Then, the mill-brook with hay or corn, Good creature! how he'd spatter through!
Character continued.
"He was a horse of mighty pow'r, Compact in frame, and strong of limb; Went with a chirp from hour to hour; Whip-cord! 'twas never made for him.
The book keeps going
Keep reading, and see it illustrated
Reading is free forever. Sign up and watch scenes appear while you read.
Scenes Storieta drew for other classics.
