When rains have ceas’d, and streets are dry,
And mud, in dust begins to fly,
When doors and windows open thrown,
Betoken Father Winter gone,
Then is the time for country jaunts,
Then each repairs to country haunts;
Where nature, deck’d in vivid green,
In all her brightest charms is seen.
Succeeds to opera, country walk,
With sober, sentimental talk,
While saunt’ring on the loit’ring way,
We stop the prospect to survey;
Observe the rich luxuriant wood,
The ivied cot, or rippling flood;
So gently lulling on it goes,
It seems to cool us as it flows.
Reach we that gently rising mound,
O’er slipp’ry grass, by suns embrown’d,
There stop, and listen to the note
That pours from each gay warbler’s throat!
But now, the unmark’d touch of time,
Abates each day of summer’s prime;
The leaves so bright, now change their hue,
And shook by winds, the ground bestrew;
The clear blue sky begins to lower,
And down descends the rapid shower:
To lose their charms now walks begin,
And other joys are sought within;
The fine bright blazes in each room,
Kindled by logs, and heath, and broom,
Close hov’ring all the hearth about,
We fain would shut the country out;
But shutters find that we have none:
Athwart, the light, thin curtain’s blown
While crevice-blasts the candles flare:
We starve, while at the blaze we stare —
These teasing ills and minor harms,
Are hints the scene has lost its charms,
The warning signal we obey,
And for departure fix the day,
Ere yet the cheerless, sickly sun
His daily course has well begun,
With eyes scarce open, shiv’ring, quaking,
Our breakfast in a hurry taking;
We’re driven far from country seats,
And welcome town, and sloppy streets.
Here now, the scene’s alive again,
With rattling wheels, and hum, and men:
A home with well-built walls, design’d
To shield us from the searching wind,
Receives us to its friendly dome,
And voices greet with “Welcome home”
The idle knockers once more sound,
And lots of friends now flock around
This, too, the time by us design’d
To wake the vigor of the mind;
The long inactive Muse to rouse,
And render gracious to our vows:
Again, to friends speeds the request,
To furnish forth our Attic Chest.
To cherish talent is our aim,
And modest poets raise to fame
Induce them to embody thought,
And earn the praise till now unsought;
Yet, not compell’d to stand confest,
Are those whose works enrich our Chest;
The name but by permission told,
Leaves criticism uncontroll’d,
And oft, by Humor’s turns delighted,
To tears of laughter while excited,
Unconsciously the bard we view,
Crying, “I’m charmed! and are not you?”
The poet archly smiles assent
Pleas’d with the compliment unmeant.
If, threaten’d by the season drear,
We Christmas influenzas fear,
A milder influence reigns here.
Here, by the brisk collision smooth’d,
The mind unbent, the spirit sooth’d,
Poetic ardors fire the breast,
No flight of Fancy is represt,
But by a Pic-Nic from each guest,
Is richly stored our Attic Chest.