VALE OF THE MOHAWK.
Vale of the Mohawk, freshly green,
What beauty in thy bound is seen!
What verdure clothes thy fair retreats,
How revels every gale in sweets!
Each leaf with dewy lustre shining,
Each vine with strong embrace entwining,
And where thy rich alluvial glows,
And full-gorged Plenty seeks repose,
It seems that scarce the hand of toil
Need vex the bosom of the soil,
So kindly Earth the seed receives,
So free returns the weight of sheaves.
And there thy river, pure and sheen,
Flows on, its fringed banks between,
Proud of its realm, and pleased to glide
To meet old Hudson's mightier tide.
From meads of clover rich and high
We saw the plundering bees go by,
And yet they scarce the surface stirr'd
Of sweets, on which the expecting herd
Shall banquet, when the mowers blithe
In the shorn flower-cups dip their scythe.
We saw the reaper girded meet
To sweep away the ripen'd wheat:
But to his throat advancing high
Its bearded lance and russet eye,
