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Rural Ballads for April.

BLOOMFIELD'S "ABNER AND THE
WIDOW JONES.”

WELL! I'm determined; 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; "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?
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 looked so gay before.

And every spark of love revived

That had perplexed him long ago,
When busy folks and fools contrived
To make his Mary answer
swer - No.

But whether, freed from recent vows,
Her heart had back to Abner flown,
And marked him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly known.

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,

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And gently twitching Mary's hand, -
The bench had ample room for two,
His first word made her understand
The ploughman's errand was to woo.
'My Mary-may I call thee so?
For many a happy day we've seen,
And if not mine, ay, years ago,
Whose was the fault?

you might have been.
All that's gone by: but I've been musing,
And vowed, and hope to keep it true,
That she shall be my own heart's choosing,
Whom I call wife. - Hey, what say you?

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 loved 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,

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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;
But what had shame with them to do,
Who nothing meant but truth to speak,
And downright honor to pursue ?

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,
And ever since I learned to drive,

He was not matched 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!
He was a horse of mighty power,

Compact in frame, and strong of limb;
Went with a chirp from hour to hour;
Whip-cord! 't was never made for him.
'I left him in the shafts behind,

His fellows all unhooked and gone;
He neighed, and deemed the thing unkind,
Then, starting, drew the load alone!
'But I might talk till pitch-dark night,
And then have something left to say;
But, Mary, am I wrong or right,

Or, do I throw my words away?
'Leave me, or take me and my horse;

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
Though, with a husband in the field,

Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em.
'I've known your generous nature well,
My first denial cost me dear;
How this may end we cannot tell,

But, as for Bayard, bring him here.'
Bless thee for that!' the ploughman cried,
At once both starting from the seat;
He stood a guardian by her side,

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.
'I'll borrow,' that's the best thought yet;
Mary shall save the horse's life.
Kind-hearted wench! what, run in debt
Before I know she 'll be my wife?

These women won't speak plain and free. —
Well, well, I'll keep my service still;
She has not said she'd marry me,

But yet I dare to say she will.
But while I take this shay-brained course,
And like a fool run to and fro,
Master, perhaps, may sell the horse!
Therefore, this instant home I'll go.
The nightly rain had drenched the grove,
He plunged right on with headlong pace;
A man but half as much in love

Perhaps had found a cleaner place.
The day rose fair; with team a-field,
He watched the farmer's cheerful brow;
And in a lucky hour revealed

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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,

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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,
He now with dainty clover fed him,
Now took a short triumphant ride,

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,
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.

TICKELL'S "LUCY AND COLIN."

A BALLAD.

OF Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace:
Nor e'er did Liffey's limpid stream
Reflect so fair a face.

Till luckless love and pining care
Impaired her rosy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

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
Take heed, you easy fair;

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains, beware.

Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring,

And shrieking at her window thrice
A raven flapped his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.

By a false heart and broken vows,
In early youth I die :

Am I to blame because his bride
Is thrice as rich as I?

Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid, receive the kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.

To-morrow in the church to wed,

Impatient, both prepare ;

But know, fond maid, and know, false man,
That Lucy will be there!

There bear my corse, ye comrades, bear,
The bridegroom blithe to meet ;

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?
How were those nuptials kept?
The bridemen flocked round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.

Compassion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell;

The damps of death bedewed his brows,
He shook, he groaned, he fell.

From the vain bride-ah, bride no more!
The varying crimson fled;

When, stretched before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.

He to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Conveyed by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,
Forever now remains.

Oft at this grave the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,
This hallowed spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

BLOOMFIELD'S "FAKENHAM GHOST."

THE lawns were dry in Euston park ;
Here truth inspires my tale -
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.

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.

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The candle's gleam pierced through the night,
Some short space o'er the green,
And there the little trotting sprite
Distinctly might be seen.

An Ass's Foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park,
And, simple as the playful lamb,
Had followed in the dark.

No goblin he; no imp of sin;
No crimes had ever known.
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And reared him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the cottage floor;

The matron learned to love the sound
That frightened her before.

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,
And some conviction too :-

Each thought some other goblin tale,
Perhaps, was just as true.

BLOOMFIELD'S "ROSY HANNAH.”

A SPRING o'erhung with many a flower,
The gray sand dancing in its bed,
Embanked beneath a hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy lass approached my view;

I caught her blue eye's modest beam :
The stranger nodded how d'ye do!'
And leaped across the infant stream.
The water heedless passed away:
With me her glowing image staid;
I strove, from that auspicious day,
To meet and bless the lovely maid.
I met her where, beneath our feet,
Through downy moss,
the wild thyme grew;
Nor moss elastic, flowers though sweet,
Matched Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon, rising, gave
New glories to her cloudy train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor

Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown ;
Truth made me welcome at her door,
And Rosy Hannah is my own.

Dyer's Rural Poems.

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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,
Over mead and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till Contemplation had her fill.

THE PROSPECT WIDENING WITH THE ASCENT.

About his checkered sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistos shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate,
Sooner or later, of all height! —
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;

Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

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,
Does the face of nature show

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;
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires:
Half his beams Apollo sheds

On the yellow mountain heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,

And glitters on the broken rocks.

FOREST-TREES; LAWNY HILL-SIDE; ROCK CASTLE.
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow becch, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs;
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,

Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,1
Holds and charms the wandering eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;

His sides are clothed with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps ;
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.

RUINS. TRANSITORINESS OF POWER AND WEALTH.

"Tis now the raven's bleak abode,
'Tis now the apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds,
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered walls.
Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,

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A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

THE RIVERS.

And see the rivers, how they run Through woods and meads, in shade and sun! 1 Dinevaur Castle.

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