Haply met, This country maiden, sweet as mignonette, No doubt the pride of some small Western town:-- Pity, that she should wear that hopeless gown, So prim--so dull--a fashion five years old!
How odd, how bold, That silken robe--those waves of costly lace, That falling hair, the shadows ’neath the eyes, Surely those diamonds are out of place-- Strange, that a lady should in such a guise Be here alone!
Allow me, mademoiselle, Our good conductor thinks it would be well That we should keep together, since the car Will soon be overcrowded, and we are The only women.--May I have a seat In this safe little corner by your side? Thanks; it is fortunate, indeed, to meet So sweet a friend to share the long day’s ride!-- That is, if yours be long?
I go beyond, not far--I think we pass Your station just before Waunona Hill; But both are in the heart of the Blue Grass. Do you not love that land?
Yes; but surely you have heard Of the fair plains where the sweet grasses grow, Just grass, naught else; and where the noble herd Of blooded cattle graze, and horses bred For victory--the rare Kentucky speed That wins the races?
Yes; I’ve heard it said They were good worthy horses.--But indeed I know not much of horses.
Then the land-- The lovely, rolling land of the Blue Grass, The wild free park spread out by Nature’s hand That scarce an English dukedom may surpass In velvet beauty--while its royal sweep Over the country miles and miles away, Dwarfs man-made parks to toys; the great trees keep Their distance from each other, proud array Of single elms that stand apart to show How gracefully their swaying branches grow, While little swells of turf roll up and fall Like waves of summer sea, and over all You catch, when the straight shafts of sunset pass Over the lea, the glint of the Blue Grass.-- But you will see it.
No; I cannot stay But a few hours--at most, a single day.
I think I like the best, Of all dumb things, a horse of Blue-Grass breed, The Arab courser of our own new West, The splendid creature, whose free-hearted speed Outstrips e’en time itself. Oh! when he wins The race, how, pulsed with pride, I wave my hand In triumph, ere the thundering shout begins, And those slow, cautious judges on the stand, Have counted seconds! Is it not a thrill That stirs the blood, yet holds the quick breath still?