Poems and Fugitive Pieces.

RURAL COURTSHIP;

OR, THE
INFANT LOVES OF LICIDUS AND ANNET.
A SIMPLE STORY.

'TWAS in the season of the year, As now, when all was gay; Two little prattlers rambled forth, To pluck the flowers of May.

The primrose pale, the violet blue, Their simple sweets did yield; With daisies, and with king‐cups too, Their little laps they fill'd.

Now tir'd with trotting far and wide, Amid the new mown hay, They long'd to spread their gather'd store, And set them down to play.

So, side by side, adown they sat, Their treasur'd store to see: Sure, never brimful budget yet Was op'd with half the glee.

Look, sister, look what pretty flowers! Some on the ground they spread, Some 'mid the curling locks they plac'd Around each other's head.

And sure, no courtly dame, bedeck'd With glittering jewels gay, Did e'er withal so blithe appear, Or half so pleas'd as they.

Now hiding deep beneath the hay, The moving mow they rear, Whilst just above the hay falls off, Their curly poles appear.

Now scrambling through the scatter'd hay Upon their hands and knees, A pretty butterfly they spied Come fluttering through the trees.

Up sprang Annet with eager joy, To catch the gilded fly; The ground was rough, she fell adown,­ Good Lord, how she did cry!

Her rosy face was soil'd, and bruis'd, But most she did deplore, "There, there it flies!" she sobbing said, "I ne'er shall see it more!"

Hard by the spot, a little boy, A neighbour's son was he, To get a nest of chirping birds Was clambering up the tree:

Full well Annetta's voice he knew, And flew to her relief; When soon with sobs and tears she told, The hist'ry of her grief.

Don't cry, Annet,­he mournful said, And softly wip'd her face; If you won't cry, I'll strive to get Another in its place.

Swift o'er the glade the kindly boy With hasty steps withdrew; To catch the fly;­ah, wist ye not 'Twas Licidus that flew?

O'er hill and dale, with hat in hand, He ran as quick as thought; Nor rested once, till he secure The fluttering captive brought.

No errant knight, with giant ta'en, More pleas'd, more proud could be: When I did kiss him for the gift, Ah,­wist ye not 'twas me?

I was not bought, though oft he gave, And could not but approve; And e'er receiv'd, with artless joy, His pretty gifts of love.

He taught a prating bird to speak, As by his side it ran; Oft at my casement would it call, "O pretty­pretty­Anne."

Then it would peck, and look so pert, And sideling hop away: I'll go and tell what feats I've done,­ It said, or seem'd to say.

Oft would he fill his pockets full, From distant wake, or fair, With songs, and story books, and nuts, And ribands for my hair.

Sometimes he'd sing, sometimes he'd read, Reclin'd all on the ground; Whilst pleas'd such wond'rous things to hear, We little folk stood round.

Sometime the children in the wood, So mournfully he'd sing; Poor little babes! we'd sobbing say, And cry like any thing.

Four sides adown of verse sublime, A frontispiece withal; And when it had been sung, or said; It grac'd our whiten'd hall.

Of giants next, bestriding rocks, And dragons in the air; Then how our eyes were lifted up,­ Lord, how we all did stare!

Then of some ghost with saucer eyes, That grinn'd o'er churchyard wall! Then he would archly start and shriek,­ How we did run and squall!

Then he would coax and fetch us back, And vow 'twas only play; And promise us a merry tale, If we'd not run away.

He'd then of mighty Tommy Thumb The gallant feats explain; How we did laugh to hear his pranks!­ So all was right again.

Ah me! well known, both far and near, And much belov'd was he; How pleasant was he unto all, But ah!­how kind to me!

Oft, has he brought through bush and briar, Of strawberries a store; And oft with blackberries his hat Was brimful running o'er.

And oft he'd scale the orchard's bounds, To seize the mellow pear; Ah me, for ready to receive, His little love was there.

O it would take an age, to dwell On such a theme as this; But I must think­not what he was, Alas! but what he is.

Yet in recounting of the past, Though it my woes renew, 'Tis far more soothing to my mind Than any mirth that's new.

Thus flew the laughing hours away, Playful and being lov'd; And what our infant minds so priz'd, Our riper years approv'd.

No goddess bright, he call'd Annet, Or styl'd her fairest she: The simplest, tenderest words he chose; And those were all to me.

Nor thought I of his graceful mien, Till mix'd among the rest; And then, indeed, I could but think He danc'd and look'd the best.

Yet oft he'd twine my curling hair Athwart my laughing een: Then peeping, say, such pretty eyes, Sure, never yet were seen!

With true‐love knots he carv'd my name On many a beechen tree; Whilst as the rind the cyphers spread, So grew his love for me.

And oft the verse to me he tun'd, And sung with so much ease; How sweet are gracious words from those We fondly wish to please!

Ah, how I linger o'er this part! And shrink as I draw near The piteous close, which e'er must be Review'd with many a tear.

For now the gathering storm approach'd That marks the mournful tale! My Licidus, for India, left His Annet of the vale.

He could not bear his much lov'd maid Should yield to any she In rural state:­he had it not, And so would go to sea.

Oh! 'twas a scheme of woe indeed, What did not Annet say! How did she weep, and seek to turn His thoughts another way.

But he had seen his kindred go, And prosper in that line; Which made him fondly urge to me, He sooner should be mine.

With tenderest, kindest, softest words, His motives did explain: Think, my Annet, my only love, How soon we'll meet again.

Yet still my surcharg'd eye with tears Was fix'd upon the ground; Ah, he did kiss, and call them pearls, And fondly fold me round.

To paint the parting scene at last, No language yet affords; It may be felt; but to express, Exceeds the power of words.

Calm grief and fix'd despair, with me A dumb submission spread: Ten thousand torturing words he raved:­ I fainted,­and he fled.

Long time in stupid woe reclin'd, For tears deny'd relief; Like meek‐ey'd patience o'er a tomb, I seem'd at peace with grief.

The fluttering mind uncertain weeps, But when fix'd woes are come, Like stagnant pools become unmov'd; For sure great griefs are dumb.

But swift a welcome letter came; Again sprang hopes and fears; I kiss'd the well known folds of love, And melted into tears.

Whate'er to soothe that pen could urge, From heart so long endear'd, He wrote, to cheer his drooping love; And she became more cheer'd.

The youthful mind revives to hope At times, though keenly press'd; Ah me, the heart thus never is, But always to be bless'd.

Again he wrote; alas, how well Sad memory records The little isle that gave it date, And these his very words.

LICIDUS TO ANNET.

By fortune, stern relentless foe, To India's scorching clime I go, Her favours to pursue; Like vain illusions of the night, She sets my bliss before my sight, But mocks me with the view. From her I ask no miser's store, No lucre, bought with Indian gore, To soothe a guilty breast; Health­competency,­peace of mind,­ Or all, in one wide wish combin'd, The power to make thee bless'd.

All anxious, thus he soon arriv'd, Unfix'd upon a plan; Impatient to be great at once, From scheme to scheme he ran.

Restless, with shining talents bless'd, He dash'd with courage bold; But changing oft, he found, dear youth, Not all that glitter'd gold.

Nor could he cringe, or falsely praise The lordlings of an hour; Or, cruel, wring the gems from those That chance put in his power.

Nurtur'd, and firm in thoughts like these, His schemes did slow prevail; Ah, how I sought to turn his views To peace and Arno's vale!

With cheering, soothing, gentlest words, I hid my griefs from view; Whilst of the blessings yet in reach The liveliest picture drew.

For me thou cross'd the treacherous seas, To try that glittering bourn; Unkindly has it prov'd to thee, Ah then, for me, return!

What, if thou hast not much obtain'd, Our real wants are few; With cheerful smiles, and frugal hands, I'll make that little do.

'Tis but a competency's meed That's vital to content; Or much, or little, that depends On what the heart is bent.

If that a russet gown would save, Russet with joy I'd wear; And still preserve thy favourite dress, To dance at wake or fair.

How many little plans I've rang'd, That love would render sweet, Ah, many,­many rise to view; Ah, could we once but meet!

I oft did curl my flowing hair, To please thy partial eye: And could I not for thee the same, All foreign aid supply?

O, I could weep, and break my heart, All anxious as I trace, How thou would'st fondly fold me round, Thus prattling in thy face!

How much I had to thee to tell, How much from thee to hear; And oh how, thus for thee employ'd, 'Twou'd banish every fear.

If any swain commend Annet, Or aught that's pleasing see! She, sooth'd that what thou lov'd's approv'd, And still preserv'd for thee.

She would be prettiest, if that gift Were dearest to thy breast; She think herself but match for thee, If fairest, richest, best.

And when on Sundays, as I'd wont, I join the house of prayer, I gaze o'er all the gallery's front, Alas! thou art not there.

I listen for thy tenor notes, As silver‐sweet they rose; But voice, nor look, nor mien like thine, Though all in Sunday's clothes.

And yet the scarlet waistcoat glow'd, Like fields with poppies growth; With freshest nosegays in their hands, A bit placed in their mouth.

And then­as home o'er churchyard stile, Through rows of shadowy yew, The village poet draws my tears, In many a sad adieu.

"Afflictions sore, long time I bore,"­ Full often meets my eye: Alas, ye were not griev'd alone, Afflicted sore am I.

Pillow'd beneath the grass green turf, Your heads and hearts at ease; The daisied sod just heaves to view, Like peaceful summer seas.

I sit beside the peopled slope, To learn its lesson rare; And careful pluck the nettles thence, They should not harbour there:

But pretty heart's‐ease, speaking flowers, And chamomile be spread, Its velvet soft, and beauteous green, Around your tranquil head.

Ah, harbour safe!­ah haven sure! Each anxious care suppress'd; The sun receding leaves ye calm, Returning, finds ye bless'd.

But I, alas! if, worn with thought, Do haply drop asleep, My wakeful fancy still presides, I murmuring moan and weep.

Sometimes thou turn'st displeas'd away, When swift I seek to prove, With wringing hands and gushing tears, My pure, my spotless love.

And oft sad fancy shows thy form Struggling amidst the wave: I, plunging, shriek, with outstretch'd arm,­ O mercy,­mercy­save!

Then wak'd, with agonizing start, I yet pursue the theme; My fluttering pulse and beating heart Long tremble o'er the dream.

Beware of men, a gipsy said, With black and piercing eye; Why should I fear,­I've done no harm; I would not hurt a fly.

For once a poor despoiled bird, Some boys had robb'd its nest, Fluttering with sad affright, it sought A refuge in my breast;

Ah, I did kiss, and softly stroke, Whilst over it I cry'd; For it did pant and ope its mouth, I thought it would have died.

And then with crumbs of bread I fed, And water from the brook; And when it was reviv'd again, Its cheerful flight it took.

I'd not have kept it for the world, But just to do it good; Go, seek thy mate; perhaps, poor bird, He's mourning in the wood.

How oft athwart this filbert copse l wind my pensive way; Ah me! for here, at hide and seek, We little bearns did play.

And this the bush I hid behind, Whilst thou did hunt about; Whence I did peep, and giggling laugh, In hopes thou'd find me out.

Then how I ran, whilst thou did chase, Thyself in coin to pay; When, not displeas'd to be o'erta'en, I laughing soon gave way.

How full of glee was Annet then, How cheerful was her brow; But anxious since, 'tis overcast; She'd hate to giggle now.

Yet Grizzy purs with shutting eyes, And Fido wags his tail, And Wuffing pulls my gown to play; But all will not avail.

The clustering vine we two did plant, My fond attention rears; Ah Licidus, it waves with sighs, And glistens with my tears!

For oft, within its leafy shade, I hide my griefs from view; I weep there o'er thy pretty gifts, There read thy letters too.

The lock of hair we did exchange, For tears I scarce can see; But I do love it best,­a cause It was a part of thee.

Go, precious relick, take thy place Among my treasur'd store; I soon shall turn to thee again, And look those o'er and o'er.

And oh, here oft, at setting day, Here oft, at rising morn, These eyes have been uplift to Heaven, To beg thy safe return!

I ask thee just but what thou wert, Or ere thou left this shore; Return­return but as thou went; I ask of Heaven no more.

Alas! I cannot now revise, The half I urged, to prove Sweet competence, with cheering smiles, Awaited faithful love.

And then with hope he'd fondly write, But ah! his genius cramp'd; Chagrin, disquietude, and care, His future prospects damp'd.

Ah me, just in that desperate mood A nymph of colour came; Perhaps, her gold­I know not what,­ But something I must blame.

One month,­one little month, nay, less, He woo'd her sable charms; Oh, all ye powers! I live to tell,­ He took her to his arms!

As the fam'd painter that, we're told, A mournful picture drew, In every grief‐impassion'd face A poignant sorrow threw;

But when still more he sought to give The hero of the tale; Description fail'd, his pencil dropp'd,­ He o'er it threw a vail.

Thus when Annet's enanguish'd soul Fresh pathos now demands; O'erwhelm'd, like her, I bow my face, And hide it with my hands.

LICIDUS TO ANNET.

Such is my fate,­so grievous my distress, Condemn'd to suffer, but deny'd redress; Too fond of joy, too sensible of pain, To part with all that's dear, and not complain; Too delicate to injure her I love, Or ask that pity fame will ne'er approve; What more remains then, but to drop my claim, And by my conduct justify my flame; Burst the dear bands that to my heart‐strings join, And sacrifice my peace­to purchase thine.