THE NEW-ENGLAND VILLAGE.
Verdant and beautiful! How fair thy vales!
With what a smile thy gentle river glides,
While through the vale of interwoven boughs
Thy peaceful dwellings pleasantly look forth.
Yon hallow'd temple, crown'd with snowy spire,
Casts a lone shadow o'er the sacred spot
Where sleeps the white-hair'd shepherd mid his flock,
The loved of God and man. The statesman's head,
With all its gather'd mass of curious lore,
Lock'd up in marble; and the soldier's arm,
Strong for his country in her hour of need,
Are here, too, 'neath the turf. And there, amid
The lawns and gardens which their hands had dress'd,
The ancient fathers, with their numerous race,
Securely dwelt.
Yon mansion hath a voice
Of other days. Through the dim lapse of years
And rule of strangers, still around its halls
Flit cherish'd images of good old times,
When hospitality, with grasp sincere,
Led to her board the unexpected guest,
And, careless of the pomp of proud array
Or servitude of menials, warm'd the heart
To social joy.
I do remember, too,
How in my early years yon dome sent forth
