no more.

TO MISS MARY BAIN.

My cousin fair, dear Mary B,
Excuse my long neglect I pray,
And pardon too, the homely strain,
In which I sing this rustic lay.

My muse and I are sorted ill,
I'm in my yellow leaf and sere;
While she is young and ardent still
And urges me to persevere.

She reads to me the roll of fame,
And presses me to join the throng,
That surge and struggle for a name,
Among the gifted sons of song.

Of that vain stuff the world calls fame
I've had I think my ample share.
At best 'tis but a sounding name
An idle puff of empty air.

For more than once I've been the choice
Of freemen to enact their laws,
And patriots cheered me when my voice,
I raised to vindicate their cause.

And more than this I've brought to pass,
For I have made a lot of ground
Produce the second blade of grass,
Where formerly but one was found.

But now I love the calm retreat,
Away from tumult, noise and strife,
And in the works of nature sweet
I learn her laws, the laws of life.

The monuments which I erect
Will hand my name for ages down,
While tombs of kings will meet neglect,
Or worse, be greeted with a frown.

My trees will bloom and bear their fruit,
My carp-pond glitter in the sun;
My cherished grape-vines too, though mute,
Will tell the world what I have done.

Now lest you think that I am vain,
And that my trumpeter is dead,
I'll drop this graceless, boasting strain,
And sing of you, dear Coz, instead.

Of all my Cousins, old or new,
I love the prairie chicken best,
I see the rising sun in you,--
Although you're rising in the west.

The picture you are working on,
I'd almost give my eyes to see,
I know it is a striking one,
For it is of the "deep blue sea."

But how you ever took the notion
To paint a picture of the sea
Before you ever saw the ocean,
Is something that surprises me.

I'm glad you have the skill to paint,
And pluck to labor and to wait;
And too much sense to pine and faint,
Because the world don't call you great.

True greatness is achieved by toil,
And labor for the public good,
'Tis labor breaks the barren soil,
And makes it yield our daily food.

Then cultivate your talents rare,
And study nature's lovely face,
And copy every tint with care;
Your work will then have life and grace.

When fame and fortune you attain,
And more than royal sway is sure,
'Twill be the majesty of brain,
A