 | The harp and plow |  |
199
ASHUELOT RIVER.
Glide on, Ash-u-e-lot, with music to hail
And join the bright stream of my own native vale!
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that named thee; they see thee no more.
And join the bright stream of my own native vale!
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that named thee; they see thee no more.
How sweet in the autumn to stray by thy side,
Beneath the smooth beeches that drink of thy tide!
To hear the wind sigh for the wild sylvan chief,
And faint, dreamy knell of the slow-falling leaf!
Beneath the smooth beeches that drink of thy tide!
To hear the wind sigh for the wild sylvan chief,
And faint, dreamy knell of the slow-falling leaf!
Here came the dark maiden, in days that are flown,
When painted for battle her warrior had gone,—
To muse o'er thy waters, to hear in their flow
The accents of pleasure, or sobbings of woe.
When painted for battle her warrior had gone,—
To muse o'er thy waters, to hear in their flow
The accents of pleasure, or sobbings of woe.
When bright shone the moon,and the bough scarcely stir'd,
And th' wolf's lonely howl from Monadnock was heard,
She saw in thy mantle of mist, chill and gray,
The ghost of her warrior rise wreathing away.
And th' wolf's lonely howl from Monadnock was heard,
She saw in thy mantle of mist, chill and gray,
The ghost of her warrior rise wreathing away.
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Still plays in the breeze, as of yore, thy light wave,
But on thy green banks all unknown is her grave;
The ploughboy turns, whistling, some mouldering bone,—
Here still flow thy waters,—her grave is unknown.
But on thy green banks all unknown is her grave;
The ploughboy turns, whistling, some mouldering bone,—
Here still flow thy waters,—her grave is unknown.
Glide on, Ashuelot, with music to hail
And swell the bright flood of my own native vale;
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that loved thee; they see thee no more.
And swell the bright flood of my own native vale;
I list to thy murmurs, I hear thee deplore
The nation that loved thee; they see thee no more.
| The harp and plow | |