Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

November with his bleak and misty skies
Clothes all the landscape in a gloomy frown;
A heavy cloud upon the hill-top lies,
And the cold raindrops weigh the herbage down,
Its vernal greenness withered into brown;
The forest oaks—how gaunt and bare they be!
With not a leaf their naked heads to crown;
The pheasants all to sheltering coverts flee,
And snug the squirrel lies within his hollow tree.

And shall I sympathise in Nature's grief,
And sadly weep because she seems to mourn?
Shall I lament for Summer's beauty brief,
And joyous Autumn, ravaged now and torn
Of all the splendors which her prime adorn?
I ask the man who guides the rustic plough,
Is it not grief that can be better borne?
Or hath he never contemplated how
To wipe the gloomy frown from nature's hazy brow?

Come, let us look within the cottage door
Of him whom mad Ambition cannot lure,
Whose harvest fruits are laid in winter's store,
Himself and flocks from driving blasts secure;
Ungrateful he if overmuch demure
When bars his door the cold autumnal rain;

Let him reflect it will not aye endure;
Not always drenched the now o'erflowing plain
For when the storm is past the sun will shine again

Is not the independent cottager
Of all mankind the most supremely blest?
No charms for him the brilliant gossamer
That floats about a monarch's haughty crest.
True nobleness that swells his manly breast
Bids him despise the pageantry of art;
Full well he knows 't is hollow at the best;
And the gay bustle of the noisy mart
Grates harshly on his ear and sickens on his heart.

In vain the sons of heraldic parade
May boast of lordly pomp and honors high;
In vain the king may rule to be obeyed,
And, girt with power, his self-willed sceptre ply;
The child of Nature gives them all the lie!
To his well-reasoning and discerning mind
It seems a wondrous inconsistency
That some, alike-created weak and blind,
Should think to lord it o'er the rest of human kind.

Is not his choice far wiser of the twain
Who can at worldly honors coldly mock?
Who leaves the crowned head o'er men to reign
While he contented rules his little flock?
Who sees unmoved the firmest empires rock,
By wars up-heaved, by sore convulsions rent,
While he securely bides the mighty shock,
And sees aloof its blasting fury spent;
While for himself unharmed his prayer to Heaven is sent?

No world for him beyond his little farm,
No hankering for baubles not his own;

On every side he finds some rural charm,
And loves fair Nature for her God alone,
For in her face His handy-work is shown;
And from His bounteous hand he owns the boon
Of all the blessings thick around him strown;
For him doth Phœbus glorify the noon,
And pleasantly at night shall shine the Harvest moon.

Such choice be mine—a chosen spot of land
Here in the bosom of my native vale;
A nervous arm and labor's horny hand,
Athletic frame and constitution hale,
To hold the plough or ply the sounding flail;
A thrifty wife as loving as beloved,
Whose simple manners art cannot assail;
A happy heart, through every trial proved,
Whose trust is placed above unfaltering and unmoved.

Then put into my hands the rural lyre,
And let me wake the wildly-sounding lay;
Then while the tempest drives me to the fire
I'll lose no time in learning how to play.
And often, also, in the pleasant day,
When birds sing sweetly in the early morn,
They shall inspire me with the carrol gay;
Summer shall show the sweetly-scented thorn,
And Autumn sing to Ceres o'er her bending corn.

New-England, fain I 'd be a bard of thine!
Thou art my country—be my patron, too!
Help me to note thy virtues as they shine,
And to the world thy light refulgent show,
Above the darkness that would veil below.
To thee, my much-loved mother, I appeal;

Give me thy smile—thou hast it to bestow!
Than me, I ween, few of thy children feel
More sorrow for thy wo, or pleasure for thy weal.

Nor deem me boastful—for I scorn to see
The lips mis-call the language of the heart;
To me it savors of hypocrisy,
From which, as from a serpent's venomed dart
The feeling soul should with abhorrence start.
Am I unreasonable in my demands?
Judge ye who have the kindness to impart.
True as Time metes his ever-gliding sands.
So true I ask no favors at unwilling hands.

Such is the wish—what think ye of the same
Who boast high titles and a pompous state?
Will not death rob you of your lordly name,
And bid the worm whose wealth has styled him great
With meanest beggar share an equal fate?
Reflect a moment, ye vain sons of pride!
Reflection must your self-conceit abate—
Who but yourselves would have you to preside
Not surely He whose rule is over all and wide?

What of the choice? ye seekers after wealth,
Who lay up treasures which shall not endure;
Who sell the soul and its eternal health
For Mammon's baubles and his glittering lure
Oh, sweet Contentment shall prescribe a cure!
She bids you count the things of earth less dear
Proclaims them all fast-failing and unsure;
She cries you rest your fancied troubles here,
And as ye now serve Mammon do your God revere

What of the choice? ye dwellers in the town,
Where night and day its legions clamor loud;

Ye, who confined in walls of brick and stone,
Do mingle madly in the jostling crowd;
And who of gay appareling are proud.
What of the choice? ye no doubt deem it mean.
Have ever “thrust the sickle in,” or ploughed?
If not, ye may not judge—but I have seen
Both life in town and country, and here judge between.

What of the choice? Methinks I hear a voice,
Or rather mingled voices, in reply:
First Health congratulates me on the choice,
And calm Contentment doth it ratify;
And Independence turns on me his eye;
The Muse declares the choice both wise and sane
And Competence looks smilingly hard by.
Well, then, so far from feeling to complain,
Were I to try anew, I 'd choose the same again.