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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
135
NEW ENGLAND.
Ah, yes! in the mist, whose soft splendour
Is shed like a smile o'er the scene,
So rich, yet so meltingly tender,
So radiant, yet so serene,—
Is shed like a smile o'er the scene,
So rich, yet so meltingly tender,
So radiant, yet so serene,—
In the azure air veiling the mountain,
Far off, with its own robe of light,
In the gleam and the foam of the fountain,
In the foliage so gorgeously bright,—
Far off, with its own robe of light,
In the gleam and the foam of the fountain,
In the foliage so gorgeously bright,—
I see a wild beauty belonging
To one sunny region alone—
New England, belovéd New England!
The soul-waking scene is thine own!
To one sunny region alone—
New England, belovéd New England!
The soul-waking scene is thine own!
And gazing entranced on the picture,
Mine eyes are with tears running o'er;
For my heart has flown home to those mountains,
And I am an exile no more!
Mine eyes are with tears running o'er;
136
And I am an exile no more!
Again through the woodlands I wander,
Where autumn trees, lofty and bold,
Are stealing from bright clouds above them
Their wealth of deep crimson and gold.
Where autumn trees, lofty and bold,
Are stealing from bright clouds above them
Their wealth of deep crimson and gold.
Where Nature is scepter'd and crown'd,
As a queen in her worshipping land;
While her rock-pillar'd palaces round
All matchless in majesty stand!
As a queen in her worshipping land;
While her rock-pillar'd palaces round
All matchless in majesty stand!
Where the star of her forest dominions,
The humming-bird, darts to its food,
Like a gem or a blossom on pinions,
Whose glory illumines the wood.
The humming-bird, darts to its food,
Like a gem or a blossom on pinions,
Whose glory illumines the wood.
Where her loftiest, loveliest flower,
Pours forth its impassion'd perfume;
And her torrents, all regal in power,
Are wreathed with the sun-circle's bloom.
Pours forth its impassion'd perfume;
And her torrents, all regal in power,
Are wreathed with the sun-circle's bloom.
137
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! belovéd 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!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |