RETURN TO CONNECTICUT.
Hail native Earth!—from brighter climes returning,
From richer scenes the ravished eye that cheer,
From palace roofs, and skies with glory burning,
Where changeless Summer decks the joyous year
With golden fruits, and verdure never sere.
Still leaps my heart to mark thy rugged crest,
Thy village spires, and mansions rude, though dear;
Still to my fervent lip thy sod is prest,
As the weaned infant clings close to its mother's breast.
Thou hast no mountain peering to the cloud,
No boundless river for the poet's lyre,
Nor mighty cataract thundering far and loud,
Nor red volcano, opening through its pyre
A safety-valve to earth's deep, central fire;
Nor dread glacier nor forest's awful frown,
Yet turn thy sons to thee with fond desire,
And from Niagara's pride, or Andes' crown,
In thy scant, noteless vales, delight to lay them down.
Thou art a Spartan mother, and from sleep
Thy hardy sons at early dawn dost call,
Though winds or storms, a sullen vigil keep,
Some goodly task proportioning to all.
Warning to fly from sloth and folly's thrall,
And patient meet the tempest or the thorn;
Nor ermine robe thou giv'st, nor silken pall,
Nor gilded boon of bloated luxury born
To bid the pampered soul its lowly brother scorn.
Yet hath bold science in thy sterile bed
Struck a deep root, and though wild blasts recoil,
The arts their winged and feathery seeds have spread
For hardened hands embrowned with peasant toil
To pluck their delicate flowers; and while the soil
Their plough hath broken, some the Muse have hailed,
Smit with her love 'mid poverty's turmoil,
And like the seer by angel-might assailed
Wrestled till break of day, and then like him prevailed.
Yet humbler virtues throw their guard around
Thy rocky coast, and 'mid the autumn leaves
That falling rustle with a solemn sound,
His magic spell a hidden spirit weaves,
Nursed 'neath the peaceful shade of cottage-eaves,
By voice of sabbath-bell from hallowed dome,
And breath of household prayer which Heaven receives,
It binds around the heart of those who roam
The patriot's stainless shields, the sacred love of home.
The love of home!—that plant of fearless birth,
From arid Afric's burning soil it springs,
'Mid icy Labrador's uncultured earth,
Or tropic Asia, where the serpent stings;
To naked hordes it gives the wealth of kings,
Though lava bursts, or earthquakes threaten loud,
Still to its bed that plant undaunted clings,
Makes the child glad, the toiling father proud,
And decks with Eden's wreath the white haired grandsire's shroud.