The scene was fair, and sweet to fancy's view,
Beneath the mountain's brow sequestered too;
The moss-grown rock, majestic, reared its head,
And frowning darkly, deepening grandeur shed;
The crystal stream, with winding course betrayed,
Its silent current stealing 'mid the glade;
The beechen tree, the favourite spot well known,
Where village sport had reared its simple throne,
Where oft at times and scenes when all was gay,
Blithe pleasure reigned in rustic holiday;
And oft when twilight's gleam had sunk afar,
And in the west appeared the evening star,
With minds serene, and labour all forgot,
Each young companion sought the favourite spot,
The legend wild, with breathless awe to share,
The jocund song, or weep the tale of care.
With rich content and humble quiet blest,
No brooding envy marred the hamlet's rest,
No sound disturbed, save when the echoing stroke
Amid the wild, the sturdy woodman spoke;
Or when afar the distant rural bell
Marked holy time, or sighed the passing knell,
From village church, whose tall and reverend fane
Rose o'er the vale, and gleamed across the plain.*
* The churches in New England are generally distinguished by lofty spires, which have a pleasing appearance.
Hallowed the spot! e'en now with awe I feel The holy dread that o'er each thought would steal At Sabbath morn, when mingling with the throng, To join in heart, and raise the sacred song. The vocal swell that thrilled the chant of love, The suppliant form, the prayer that rose above; The warning voice, when Sinai spoke alarm, The strains of peace that whispered Calvary's balm, All touched the heart, and drew the listening ear, The sigh was heard, and oft was seen the tear. The flock retired, but 'twas apart to pray, And meditation well employed the day.
For me, the lonely walk possessed a charm, And pleasing solitude could care disarm; And oft I lingered near the hallowed ground, My favourite spot, where wrapt in thought profound, I wandered sad, beneath the elm-tree shade, Where grass-grown hillocks told that life must fade. And oft I watched the mournful, lengthening train, In funeral state, pass slow across the plain, For death's sure arrow found this calm abode, The man, the friend, the viewless valley trode. Around the grave the thoughtful rustics bend, And oft the prayer and holy hope ascend; The shepherd-pastor sorrowing tears t' assuage, Speaks consolation from the sacred page; Tells of the hopes which from that fountain spring; How Jesus rose, and foiled the tyrant's sting;
How brief is time, how long the bright reward,
And blessed are all that slumber in the Lord;
The mourner weeps-but weeps in humble trust,
And well resigned, commits the dust to dust.
At twilight hour, the household train repair,
Together join, and meek instruction share;
The catechist the youthful mind employs,
And tells of Him who forms, and who destroys.
The aged listen, while the young explore,
With reverence due, the page of sacred lore:
In strains of Zion each devoutly blends,
And now, with fervent prayer, the holy Sabbath ends.
How blessed the scene, where piety and truth Unite their aid to form the rising youth;
How blessed thy course, New England, well inclined With precepts true to store the tender mind.
With native zeal, the willing bard would tell
Of primal customs, once beloved so well;
The hallowed day of sacred fast severe,
To plead for blessings on the opening year;
The well known time of mirth and festive joy,
When care was lost, and hushed each rude employ,
When beaming bliss, and in their best array,
The distant youth the annual visit pay.
With faithful ken, fond memory would retrace
Those early joys which time can ne'er efface,
The FESTAL DAY, by long descent revered,.
A yearly Jubilee, to all endeared.
On that glad morn, arrayed with seemly care,
All worship humbly in the house of prayer;
At home, assembled round the groaning board,
With nature's gifts and housewife's labours stored,
Arranged with skill, from age to eager youth,
They reverend stand, and crave with earnest truth,
A kindly blessing from the Fount of Love,
Whose care paternal doth the act approve:
And now, with keen, but temperate haste, they share
The full repast, the yeoman's bounteous fare.
With prudent use, the cheerful glass goes round,
The mutual wish with mutual hopes is crowned,,
With church and country, home and absent friends,.
And thanks for all that heaven in mercy sends..
The evening hour invites to halcyon joy,.
And varied sports that charm, but never cloy.
The lively dance, with ancient, mystic game,
Where choice betrays the modest lover's flame;
The ready jest, the mirth inspiring song;
With tales of old, the joyous scenes prolong,
While youthful love and hymen oft delight-
To join the bridal with the festive night,
Such are thy joys, New England,—such thy scenes, Simple and rich, where care ne'er intervenes; Such thy republic, pure, unsoiled by art,.
The boast and pride of every patriot heart..
THOU says't the world refuses its smile,
Thou art soothed no more by pleasure,
O believe, its mirth is guile,
Vain is folly's boasted treasure..
Thy early friend withdraws his love,
Love in happier moments given;
Trust me, mortals, false, may prove,
All is false-but God and heaven..
In this wilderness of tears,
Where the wanderer strays unheeding, Would'st thou, torn with doubts and fears, Seek the path to safety leading?
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