A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town |
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 | A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 |  |
Yet we cannot forget, the while we gaze
On what this morn hath gilded with its rays,
Though all is new, and even the verdant soil
Seems made to day, not crowned with ancient toil,
That four times fifty years have passed away,
Since, in the sunlight of another May,
The hardy settler gave this spot a name
Culled from the English home from which he came.
We scarce can feel the years that time hath told,
While leaves and flowers their breathing life unfold.
Yet so it is, with all we see and know:
The shadow of the Past, where'er we go,
Spreads over all its strange and dreamy hue.
Nought but the Soul, which feels it all, is new.
On what this morn hath gilded with its rays,
Though all is new, and even the verdant soil
Seems made to day, not crowned with ancient toil,
That four times fifty years have passed away,
Since, in the sunlight of another May,
The hardy settler gave this spot a name
Culled from the English home from which he came.
We scarce can feel the years that time hath told,
While leaves and flowers their breathing life unfold.
Yet so it is, with all we see and know:
The shadow of the Past, where'er we go,
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Nought but the Soul, which feels it all, is new.
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |