Rural Ballads for April. BLOOMFIELD'S "ABNER AND THE WELL! I'm determined; that's enough:- Our master talks of stable-room, And younger horses on his grounds; "T is easy to foresee thy doom, Bayard, thou 'It go to feed the hounds. But could I win the widow's hand, I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee; For thou upon the best of land Shouldst feed, and live and die with me. And must the pole-axe lay thee low? If I can win the Widow Jones. Twirl went his stick; his curly pate And every spark of love revived That had perplexed him long ago, But whether, freed from recent vows, Howbeit, as he came in sight, She turned her from the garden stile, And downward looked with purè delight, With half a sigh and half a smile. She heard his sounding step behind; The blush of joy crept up her cheek, As cheerly floated on the wind, And gently twitching Mary's hand, - you might have been. And as I drove my plough along, Whom I have loved this many a day, And make poor Mary poorer still. 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 looked downward on the bench, O'erpowered by love and gratitude. She leaned her head against the vine, With quickening sobs of silent bliss: Till Abner cried, 'You must be mine; You must,' and sealed it with a kiss. She talked of shame, and wiped her cheek; His eloquence improved apace, As manly pity filled his mind; "You know poor Bayard; here's the case, He's past his labor, 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 ! 'I'll buy him, for the dogs shall never Set tooth upon a friend so true; He'll not live long, but I forever Shall know I gave the beast his due. "Mongst all I've known of ploughs and carts, He was not matched in all these parts; 'Ready as birds to meet the morn, Were all his efforts at the plough; Compact in frame, and strong of limb; His fellows all unhooked and gone; Or, do I throw my words away? I've told thee truth, and all I know: Truth should breed truth; that comes of course; If I sow wheat, why, wheat will grow. 'Yes, Abner, but thus soon to yield, Neighbors would fleer and look behind 'em Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em. But, as for Bayard, bring him here.' But talked of home, 't was growing late. Then step for step within his arm, She cheered him down the dewy way; And no two birds upon the farm E'er prated with more joy than they. What news at home? The smile he wore One little sentence turned to sorrow; An order met him at the door, 'Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow.' Yes, yes, thought he, and heaved a sigh; Die when he will he's not your debtor : I must obey, and he must die, — That's if I can't contrive it better. He left his Mary late at night, And had succeeded in the main ; No sooner peeped the morning light But he was on the road again! Suppose she should refuse her hand? Such thoughts will come, I know not why ; Shall I, without a wife or land, Want an old horse?- then, wherefore buy? From bush to bush, from stile to stile, Perplexed he trod the fallow ground, And told his money all the while, And weighed the matter round and round. These women won't speak plain and free. — But yet I dare to say she will. Perhaps had found a cleaner place. my And want old Bayard; what's his price? For Mary Jones last night agreed, Or near upon 't, to be wife : The horse's value I don't heed, I only want to save his life.' Buy him, hey! Abner, trust me, I Have not the thought of gain in view; Bayard's best days we've seen go by ; He shall be cheap enough to you.' The wages paid, the horse brought out, The hour of separation come; The farmer turned his chair about, 'Good fellow, take him, take him home. 'You're welcome, Abner, to the beast, For you've a faithful servant been ; They'll thrive, I doubt not in the least, Who know what work and service mean.' The maids at parting, one and all, From different windows different tones, Bade him farewell with many a bawl, And sent their love to Mary Jones. He waved his hat, and turned away, When loud the cry of children rose ; 'Abner, good-by!' they stopt their play; 'There goes poor Bayard!-there he goes!' Half choked with joy, with love, and pride, And then again got down and led him. And hobbling onward up the hill, The widow's house was full in sight, He pulled the bridle harder still, 'Come on, we shan't be there to-night.' She met them with a smile so sweet, And, loudly snorting, laid him down. O, Victory! from that stock of laurels TICKELL'S "LUCY AND COLIN." A BALLAD. OF Leinster, famed for maidens fair, Till luckless love and pining care Her coral lips and damask cheeks, O, have you seen a lily pale, When beating rains descend? So drooped the slow-consuming maid, Her life now near its end. By Lucy warned, of flattering swains Of vengeance due to broken vows, Three times, all in the dead of night, And shrieking at her window thrice Too well the love-lorn maiden knew I hear a voice you cannot hear, I see a hand you cannot see, By a false heart and broken vows, Am I to blame because his bride Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows, Nor thou, fond maid, receive the kiss, To-morrow in the church to wed, Impatient, both prepare ; But know, fond maid, and know, false man, There bear my corse, ye comrades, bear, He in his wedding trim so gay, I in my winding sheet. She spoke, she died!-her corse was borne, The bridegroom blithe to meet He in his wedding trim so gay, She in her winding sheet. Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts? Compassion, shame, remorse, despair, At once his bosom swell; The damps of death bedewed his brows, From the vain bride-ah, bride no more! When, stretched before her rival's corse, He to his Lucy's new-made grave, Oft at this grave the constant hind But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art, BLOOMFIELD'S "FAKENHAM GHOST." THE lawns were dry in Euston park ; Benighted was an ancient dame, And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham, And hail its willow shade. 1 This ballad is founded on a fact. The candle's gleam pierced through the night, An Ass's Foal had lost its dam No goblin he; no imp of sin; His little hoofs would rattle round The matron learned to love the sound A favorite the Ghost became, And 't was his fate to thrive ; And long he lived and spread his fame, And kept the joke alive. For many a laugh went through the vale, Each thought some other goblin tale, BLOOMFIELD'S "ROSY HANNAH.” A SPRING o'erhung with many a flower, I caught her blue eye's modest beam : I met her where the dark woods wave, Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown ; Dyer's Rural Poems. SILENT Nymph! with curious eye, Who the purple evening lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man, Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings, Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse; Now, while Phoebus, riding high, Gives lustre to the land and sky, Grongar Hill' invites my song, Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar! in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar! in whose silent shade, For the modest muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head; QUIET. While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's 2 flood, From house to house, from hill to hill, THE PROSPECT WIDENING WITH THE ASCENT. About his checkered sides I wind, Still it widens, widens still, THE MOUNTAIN'S TOP; FREE PROSPECT; CASTLES, CHURCH STEEPLES; MOUNTAINS, FLOCKS, ROCKS. Now I gain the mountain's brow; What a landscape lies below! No clouds, no vapors intervene ; But the gay, the open scene, 12 Grongar Hill is an eminence in the south of Wales; Towy, a stream there, which runs into Caermarthen Bay. In all the hues of heaven's bow; On the yellow mountain heads, And glitters on the broken rocks. FOREST-TREES; LAWNY HILL-SIDE; ROCK CASTLE. Lies a long and level lawn, On which a dark hill, steep and high,1 His sides are clothed with waving wood; RUINS. TRANSITORINESS OF POWER AND WEALTH. "Tis now the raven's bleak abode, A sunbeam in a winter's day, THE RIVERS. And see the rivers, how they run Through woods and meads, in shade and sun! 1 Dinevaur Castle. |