REPLY: To A Friend In The City, From Her Friend In The Country. Which I Am Grateful For Permission To Insert.
By Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow
Dear Madam,
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,
And spare all rebuff, and the keen critic's eye.
I appreciate all of your calm country life,
And feel you are happy as mother and wife;
Surrounded by taste, and the friend so refined,
Who with sterling good sense, loves the delicate mind;
Who with you can admire the "bird on the wing,"
With you welcome back the return of the spring;
Enjoying the promise of fruits and sweet flowers,
With music to cheer and beguile evening hours;
Then long, very long, may such hours be given -
They whisper content, and the foretaste of heaven.
I was born in the city, the city's my home,
Yet oft in the country with pleasure I roam;
For there, I confess, the heart finds repose
In its pleasures and sorrows, which here it ne'er knows.
There no fashion, no nonsense, intrude on your walk,
But rational moments of rational talk,
Asserting that soiries, with jewels and dress,
Make a very small part of life's happiness.
Ah! this I believe, most sincerely I do,
And sympathize freely, most truly with you.
Now Kossuth is coming, pray what's to be done?
No pageant to welcome, to children no fun?
Some "turn a cold shoulder," and look with disdain,
Yet many there'll be who will follow his train.
He's "sure missed a figure," and "bit his own nose,"
Ah, many the thorn he'll find 'mid life's rose.
Then we've concerts, fine readings, museum and halls,
With disputes, and debates, in legislative halls,
Ethiopian Minstrels, Shakesperian plays;
And yet, my dear friend, I'm told in these days,
Religion's blessed joys are most faithfully felt,
With devotion's pure prayers the proud heart to melt;
That many have turned to the straight narrow road,
Which leadeth to peace and communion with God.
To you this assurance a welcome will find,
A subject of vital concern to the mind.
When hither you come, do enter our door,
I'll give you my hand, perhaps something more.
Let me urge, if inclined, to this you'll reply,
I'll again do my best, yes, surely I'll try;
The fair one who brings it ought sure to inspire
Some poetical lay from Genius' sweet lyre.
But Genius repels me, she "turns a deaf ear,"
And frowns on me scornful, the year after year;
Perhaps if I sue, in the "sere yellow leaf,"
She'll open her heart, and yield me relief.
But wayward my pen, I must now bid adieu,
My friendship, dear madam, I offer to you,
And beg with your friends, you'll please place my name,
The privilege grant me of doing the same.
S. NICHOLSON.
Boston, April 16, 1862.