 | Poems |  |
APOSTROPHE TO NEW-ENGLAND.
There is a land—there is a land
To which my spirit turns,
Whose memory warms my very heart
With flame that ever burns.
To which my spirit turns,
Whose memory warms my very heart
With flame that ever burns.
And on that land—and on that land
The smiles of Heaven rest;
With glorious light that shineth there
Her poorest son is blest.
The smiles of Heaven rest;
With glorious light that shineth there
Her poorest son is blest.
That land is free—that land is free!
The breeze that visits there
Is happy symbol of that clime—
Unfettered as the air.
The breeze that visits there
Is happy symbol of that clime—
Unfettered as the air.
Her happy homes—her happy homes—
How fair and bright they seem!
Like fairy clime to traveler
Who wanders in a dream.
How fair and bright they seem!
93
Who wanders in a dream.
The painted cot—the painted cot,
With woodbine creeping o'er;
The little child, just learned to run,
At play beside the door.
With woodbine creeping o'er;
The little child, just learned to run,
At play beside the door.
The garden neat—the garden neat,
Where richest flowers thrive;
The pleasant hum that greets the ear
From many a busy hive.
Where richest flowers thrive;
The pleasant hum that greets the ear
From many a busy hive.
The grassy shade—the grassy shade
Where snowy lambkins lie;
The flowery mead, and limpid brook
That wanders babbling by.
Where snowy lambkins lie;
The flowery mead, and limpid brook
That wanders babbling by.
Her happy homes—her happy homes—
How fair and bright they seem!
Like fairy clime to traveler
Who wanders in a dream.
How fair and bright they seem!
Like fairy clime to traveler
Who wanders in a dream.
When Sabbath comes—when Sabbath comes
In stillness o'er that land,
Devotion and another world
The thoughts of all command.
In stillness o'er that land,
Devotion and another world
The thoughts of all command.
The distant bell—the distant bell
Floats sweetly on the air,
And at its call full many a knee
Is bowed in holy prayer.
Floats sweetly on the air,
And at its call full many a knee
Is bowed in holy prayer.
There is a land—there is a land
To which my spirit turns,
Whose memory warms my very heart
With flame that ever burns!
To which my spirit turns,
Whose memory warms my very heart
With flame that ever burns!
Wisconsin territory, west of the Mississippi,
Sabbath morning, Jan. 1837.
| Poems | |