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540
Paradise
How lovely in the warm September days,The hills, and groves, and winding rivers clear;
Across the stream, where now I love to gaze,
They named it Paradise, who first came here;
And such, when Autumn changed the forests' hue,
Dying their leaves a thousand varied dies,
Did Salem seem unto the pilgrims' view,
Bathed in the golden light of Autumn's skies!
The grapes hung clustering from the lofty trees,
The nut groves showered their ripened fruit around,
'Twas all their own to settle where they please,
The scattered Planters only here they found;
Or Indians roving still from place to place,
As seasons came for fishing, or the chase.
Poem No. 192; c. 1878–80
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