The New-England Village

Verdant and beautiful! How fair thy vales!With what a smile thy gentle river glides,While through the vale of interwoven boughsThy peaceful dwellings pleasantly look forth.Yon hallow'd temple, crown'd with snowy spire,Casts a lone shadow o'er the sacred spotWhere sleeps the white-hair'd shepherd mid his flock,The loved of God and man. The statesman's head,With all its gather'd mass of curious lore,Lock'd up in marble; and the soldier's arm,Strong for his country in her hour of need,Are here, too, 'neath the turf. And there, amidThe lawns and gardens which their hands had dress'd,The ancient fathers, with their numerous race,Securely dwelt.Yon mansion hath a voiceOf other days. Through the dim lapse of yearsAnd rule of strangers, still around its hallsFlit cherish'd images of good old times,When hospitality, with grasp sincere,Led to her board the unexpected guest,And, careless of the pomp of proud arrayOr servitude of menials, warm'd the heartTo social joy.I do remember, too,How in my early years yon dome sent forth

The daughter in her bridal loveliness,To wreathe fresh roses round a distant home,And stately sons, all strong and bold, to takeTheir untried portion in this tossing world.From thence the father to an honour'd graveWas borne; and there the mother of the flock,Lovely and loved as in her day of bloom,Sank meekly on her couch to rise no more:And the sweet haunts of her sweet ministryHave lost her name forever. Yet the vineThat gadding round her nursery-window climb'd,Still lives unnurtured; and methinks its leavesThrill with the lore of hoarded memories,Pleasant, yet mournful.But that ancient race,With whom our heart's deep reverence dwelt so long,Methinks at such an hour they seem to standAgain among us, even more palpablyThan those we call the living. Wait we notAt hush of eve for them? dreaming we hearTheir footsteps in the rustle of the leaves,Or their low whisper, warning us to seekA home not made with hands?So may it be;And to that home eternal every oneWho here were rapt in the frank fellowshipOf simpler days, and mourn its loss with tears,Be gather'd, where no more the blight of ill,Or fear of change, or sigh of pain shall stealO'er the pure mingling of congenial souls.