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on a landscape by doughty.
Where, on cloud-pillows soft but resplendent,
Our day-spirit floats to his rest;
And the moon, like a pure jewel-pendent,
Is hung on night's love-breathing breast.
Our day-spirit floats to his rest;
And the moon, like a pure jewel-pendent,
Is hung on night's love-breathing breast.
New England! belovèd New England!
I breathe thy rich air as of yore;
For my heart is at home in those mountains,
And I am an exile no more!
I breathe thy rich air as of yore;
For my heart is at home in those mountains,
And I am an exile no more!
Yet not for thy beauty or glory,
Though lofty and lovely thou art,
And not for thy proud haunts of story,
These tears of deep tenderness start;—
Though lofty and lovely thou art,
And not for thy proud haunts of story,
These tears of deep tenderness start;—
There's a home in the heart of New England,
Where once I was fondly caress'd!
Where strangers ne'er look'd on me coldly,
And care never came to my breast!
Where once I was fondly caress'd!
Where strangers ne'er look'd on me coldly,
And care never came to my breast!
Though warm hearts have cherish'd the exile
In moments of sorrow and pain,
There's a home in the heart of New England,—
Oh! when shall I see it again!
In moments of sorrow and pain,
There's a home in the heart of New England,—
Oh! when shall I see it again!
