Vale of the Mohawk

Vale of the Mohawk, freshly green,What beauty in thy bound is seen!What verdure clothes thy fair retreats,How revels every gale in sweets!Each leaf with dewy lustre shining,Each vine with strong embrace entwining,And where thy rich alluvial glows,And full-gorged Plenty seeks repose,It seems that scarce the hand of toilNeed vex the bosom of the soil,So kindly Earth the seed receives,So free returns the weight of sheaves.And there thy river, pure and sheen,Flows on, its fringed banks between,Proud of its realm, and pleased to glideTo meet old Hudson's mightier tide.From meads of clover rich and highWe saw the plundering bees go by,And yet they scarce the surface stirr'dOf sweets, on which the expecting herdShall banquet, when the mowers blitheIn the shorn flower-cups dip their scythe.We saw the reaper girded meetTo sweep away the ripen'd wheat:But to his throat advancing highIts bearded lance and russet eye,

He stoutly wrestled on his way,Like swimmer with the billowy bay,Till all behind his path of toilLay in dead waves, the harvest-spoil.

—While we, of bleak New-England's coast,That ne'er a mine of wealth might boast,Save what her sons laborious findWho dig the quarry of the mind,(And, certes, they such wealth who hold,May well contemn the lust of gold)We, still delighted and amazed,Upon these haunts of richness gazed,Nor spared to praise, with heart elate,The splendour of the "Empire State:"—But lauded more, in accents bland,The glory of our Native Land,Who, if she simply understoodThe flowing fulness of her good,And felt her blessings as she ought,And praised her Maker in her thought,And did His will, might surely beThe very happiest of the free.