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NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



AMERICAN SKETCHES. 

 THE FARMER'S FIRE-SIDE. 

 Shade of immortal Bums ! •wliere''er thy home. 

 On Scotia's misty hilh, or fixed on hi»h, 

 Beyond the star-lijhts of the wolkin dome, 

 Too holy, and too bright for mortal eye, 

 'Mid amber streams and murniuriag melody, 

 Great bard of lowly life ! propitious bend, 

 And while the rustic song, unskiU'd, I try. 

 Thy l'>ve of truth and independence lend, 

 And with its warblings wild, thy master spirit blend. 



The world I've searcli'd, and it has many a rose — 

 But, ah! the thorns beneath them that remain, 

 Proclaim the world not destitute of woes. 

 And, when I look'd for pleasure, give but pain. 

 No more amid its scenes my soul restrain ; 

 Back to my boyish days ! Let memory guide 

 The tired and flagging spirit once again. 

 To scenes most dear — to hill, and rolling tide, 

 And that old cottage, once that grac'd its verdant side. 



Meekly arose its moss-besprinkled wall, 

 One ancient beech magnificently bore 

 Its branches o'er it, overshadowing all 

 The space around its hospitable door; 

 Within, might one behold its little store, 

 The plates ivell rang'd, the shelves that neatlygrac'd, 

 The chairs of oak upon the sanded floor, 

 The wheel industrious in its corner plac'd, 

 The clock, that hourly told, how life runs on to waste. 



Once more the pensive eve with silent tread 

 Returns to hush the noisy world to peace ; 

 Once more the Farmer seeks his humble shed, 

 Glad from his daily toil to gain release ; 

 His task accomplish'd and his heart at ease, 

 He hails betimes the Fireside of his cot ; 

 And there, as from the hills the shades increase, 

 " The world forgetting, by the world forgot," 

 He tastes the simple joys, that sooth his quiet lot. 



His patient herd, ere set the beams of day. 

 With lowings oft, alarm'd the neighboring plain. 

 Now pcnn'd within the well-known bars, they pay 

 Their milky tribute to his pails again. 

 His flocks upon the distant hill remain. 

 Their tinkling bells sound in the passing wind ; 

 Though his be not the lordling's wide domain. 

 Yet fails he not a due supply to find, 

 From lowing herd and field, and from the bleating kind. 



To greet him home, the crackling faggots burn, 

 The housewife, busy round the blazing fire. 

 Cheers, with her smiles her Farmers lov'd return ; 

 His children climb around their honor'd sire. 

 And to his fond caress once more aspire ; 

 Inquisitive, they ask of each lair field. 

 Whether its hills, than their own clitTs are higher? 

 What wonders there of cascade are reveal'd ? 

 What flowers enchanting bloom, what gifts the moun- 

 tains yield ? 



Her father's knee, his Bertha soon surmounts, 

 Around his neck her tender arms she throws. 

 His Bertha, from whose eyes like diamond founts, 

 The living fire through locks of ebon glows. 

 Nor she alone ; he on them all bestows 

 Alike his kisses and alike his tears. 

 Who bloomed (on autumn's bosom, like the rose, 

 'Mid cold and storm its loveliness that rears,) 

 To cheer bis riper age, and deck his vale of years. 



To him, how bless'd the closing hours of day ! 

 His wife, his children, Uiose that love him, near ! 

 How sweet his cot's own hospitable ray ! 

 How kind its welcome, and its joys how dear 1 

 The cricket chirps, the sacred scene to cheer. 

 The embers half illume the humble hall. 

 The shaggy mastiff sleeps, devoid of fear. 

 The playful kitten round and round the ball 

 Urges with active sport, unmindfully of all. 



The children mingle in Grimalkin's mirth, 

 And laugh and busy prattle do not s]'are. 

 Such cheerful sport, the chirper in the hearth, 

 Scenes, which eve returning doth repair. 

 Charm from the Farmer's bosom carping care. 

 And banish it to " blank oblivion foul." 

 Hark I loud and startling through the misty air. 

 The prowling wolf resum's his nightly howl. 

 And ftota the hollow oak is heard the muffled owl. 



How oft I've sought that distant, lonely cot ! 

 A grandam dwelt there, ivhcn my days were young. 

 And there, when Christmas logs blazed red and hot, 

 And wintry blasts their nightly descant sung, 

 My soul delighted on her lips was hung. 

 As spoke she oft of dreadful deeds of yore, 

 How stern Wahawa, like a tiger sprung 

 Upon a lonely cot, and tides of gore 

 Were shed, as when the clouds their vernal treasures 

 pour. 



Her hands were withered, as an autumn's leaf. 

 Her cheeks were like a parch'd and shrivell'd scroll, 

 In truth, though human life at best be brief. 

 She witness'd eighty years their circuits roll, 

 And friends and kindred reach'd their earthly goal ; 

 And sitting by her busy wheel to spin. 

 While swift the hours at evening onward stole, 

 We tcazed her oft some story to begin. 

 And as she mov'd in sooth her old projecting chin, 



She told of Mog, Madockawando, all 

 From Hopehood down to Paugus' frantic yell. 

 And, a" her lips the bloody deeds recall. 

 And, as with upturn'd ga7.p we heard her tell. 

 Unconsciously the chrystal tear-drops fell. 

 For, from our infancy, we'd heard and read 

 Of Chiefs from Canada, and knew full well 

 Of Sachem's wrath, that feasted on the dead, 

 And shook the haughty plume and arm with life-blood 

 red. 



My native hills, my loved, my honored land. 

 Ye vallies dear, how cling my thoughts to you ! 

 Long as my footsteps tread this earthly strand. 

 The throbs that heave my bosom shall be true, 

 To all the witching scenes that childhood knew ; 

 'Tis joy, 'tis heaven to breathe one's natal air. 

 To climb the hills, deck'd in the morning's dew. 

 And bending o'er our fathers' graves, to swear 

 No tyrant shall disturb the dust that slumbers there. 



Such scenes, such tales, such homebred ties, can fill 

 With fervid extacy, the raptur'd mind. 

 And teach with patriot glow the breast to thrill. 

 And beat to all that's noble, generous, kind ; 

 One evening to that col my steps inclin'd. 

 The giant beech-tree wav'd before its door, 

 The distant clouds were driven before the wind, 

 The mountain cataract was heard to roar. 

 Paler the tranquil moon, than foam on ocean's shore. 



There too, a soldier bent his nightly way. 

 Who'd borne his rifle in the old French war, 

 And mingled oft in many a bloody fray. 

 And bore upon his visage many a scar ; 

 Weary his step, his own lov'd home was far. 

 The locks upon his silver'd head were few. 

 His eye was like the winter's clouded star, 

 The arm, that once the glittering broad sword drew. 

 Was nerveless now with years, yet much he'd seen 

 aird knew. 



The staff, that in his dexter hand he bore, 

 AVas parted from an oak, whose branches spread 

 Near wild Cocheco's oft remembered roar ; 

 And bending to the Farmer's cot his tread. 

 He gave one rap, and well his purpose sped ; 

 The Farmer hail'd him to his lone abode. 

 Gave him a portion of his cup and bread. 

 And soon, forgetful of the tedious road. 

 How fields were lost and won, the aged soldier sliow'd. 



In Fifly-nine, on Abraham's blood-red plain, 

 (The veteran thus pursued his warlike tale,) 

 When heroes fell, like summer drops of rain. 

 When rival standards flash'd upon the gale, 

 And shouts were heard, triumphant songs and wail. 

 Where Cadaraqui holds his giant way, 

 I fought with Wolfe, call'd from the dear-lov'd vale. 

 And dark Piscatawa's glades of green array 

 To cross the mountains blue to distant Canada. 



Hard was the tug of war, severe the strife, 

 Plumes, swords and ensigns swept along the field. 

 Full many a warrior, prodigal of life. 

 Too bold to flee, too proud of soul to yield. 

 His valor with his dearest life-blood seal'd ; 

 Slow bowed in dust, fell Lewis of Montcalm, 

 To neither host was triumph yet reveal'd. 

 Oh, withtr'd be the soul that wrought such harm. 

 Soon Wolfe falls, bleeding, low, nerveless his mighly 

 arm. 



A soldier lifted up his drooping head. 

 Dim grew th' ethereal flashes of his eye. 

 And from his breast the streams gush'd darkly red, 

 And every gush heav'd forth a blacker dye ; 

 High rose the clamorous shout, ' they fly, they fly • 

 ' Who fly ?' arous'd to life, the hero cried, 

 A thousand lips awake the joyous cry, 

 ' The foe, the foe !' — the gallant Wolfe replied. 

 Clasping his hands in praise, ' I fall content,' and died 



Thus spoke the soldier ! peace, ye mighty dead ! 

 Bf yours both peace and glory, chiefs of yore ! 

 Who clad in armor generously shed. 

 Where clashing steel met steel, roar answef'd roar, 

 For home and liberty your bosom's gore I 

 Thanks be to Him who our brave fathers nerv'd. 

 Boldly to stand, when fiery floods came o'er. 

 From honor's upright path, who never swerv'd. 

 To ages then unborn, who freedom, bliss preserv'd. 



And tho' such tales were heard with many a tear, 

 And memory, fancy, feeling, all possess'd. 

 Yet soon, in truth, the gaiety and cheer. 

 That ever animate the youthful breast. 

 By solemn thoughts, unconquer'd, unsuppress'd, 

 Awoke in sports anew ; the slipper's sound, 

 By youth and village maiden, ne'er at rest, 

 Was driven through the circle round and round. 

 And every cheek did smile, and every heart did bound 



E'en the old soldier felt his bosom thrill 

 With memory of scenes, that erst he knew ; 

 The visions of the past his spirit fill. 

 And as around the room the younglings flew. 

 At blind-man's-buff, he would have join'd them toc 

 But age to youth will not wing back its flight ; 

 To sit and smile was all that he could do. 

 And bravely cry out, " wheel, and left, and right,' 

 To him who blinded was, and caught them as he might 



.\t blind-man's-buff, who hath not often play'd. 

 At pledges oft the moments to beguile. 

 When sober evening lends her peaceful shade^ 

 When heart replies to heart, and smile to smile ? 

 The hearth is burned with the oaken pile. 

 Such as New Hampshire's forests well can spar^ ; 

 Still flies the slipper round ; a few meanwhile 

 The warriors of the chequer-board prepare. 

 The garrulous old folk draw round the fire, the chair. 



But now the white moon, thro' the clouds reveal'd, 

 Doth tread the topmost arches of the sky ; 

 The farmer's cot, the cultivated field. 

 The brook, the plain, the mountain soaring high. 

 Beneath her beams in wild profusion lie ; 

 The dog upon the ground hath laid his breast, 

 Forgotten his howl and sealed his restless eye, 

 The sturdy wood-cutter hath gone to rest. 

 The flock is on the hill, the bird is on the nest. 



Farewell, thou cottage, for 'tis late at eve, 

 Farewell, ye scenes to memory ever dear. 

 Now eld, and youth, and maiden take their leav-e, 

 Their 'kerchiefs wave, and with adieu sincere, 

 The rural company soon disappear. 

 Some thro' yon scatter'd woods that skirt the moor, 

 Some to yon mountains, craggy, bold and drear, 

 And by the Cottage Fireside once more. 

 Devotion lifts her voice, as she was wont of yore. 



The patriot Farmer reads the sacred Book, 

 Theu with the wife and children of his heart, 

 With solemn soul and reverential look. 

 He humbly kneels, as is the Christian's part, 

 And worships Thee, our lather. Thee, who art 

 The good man's hope, the poor man's only stay, 

 Who hast a balm for sorrow's keenest dart, 

 A smile for those, to Thee who humbly pray. 

 Which, like the morning sun, drives every cloud away 



Thou Lord of heaven above, and earth below, 

 Our maker, friend, our guardian, and our all, 

 The Farmer keep from every want and woe. 

 Nor let the thunderbolts, that most appal. 

 Of righteous vengeance dreadful on him fall ; 

 With him, preserve his dear, his native land, 

 A cloud be round her, and a fiery wall. 

 With thy displeasure every traitor brand. 

 And centuries yet to come, oh, hold her in thy hand. 



(t:^N. E. FARMER, published every Saturday, 

 $3 per ann. payable at the end of the year, or $2,50,.^ 

 paid ia advance. 



